


Glory to Glory

by pearl037



Category: Disney - All Media Types, Disney Princesses, Pocahontas (Disney 1995)
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Historical, Disney, F/M, Gen, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25551271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pearl037/pseuds/pearl037
Summary: When John Smith returns to England, Pocahontas is left as the mediator between the settlers and her people. When a bad growing season forces them to cease trading, the new captain will stop at nothing to ensure the survival of his colony. Meanwhile, England prepares for war. Multi-perspective.  All rights belong to Disney and history. Part X is up!
Relationships: Pocahontas/John Smith (Disney)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7
Collections: Disney's Pocahontas





	1. Choices

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! If you have found me on A03, thanks for the read! I wrote this story because I was tired of poorly written and unfinished fan fiction. Like many of you, I also think that Disney botched the Pocahontas sequel, so this is me joining the legion of fans trying to rectify that. I own nothing except the original characters; all rights belong to Disney and history. That said, I have taken a handful of liberties with both, so if you feel the need to come for me for either of those reasons, please refrain. All other comments and feedback are welcome. Lastly, no matter what happens, this is at its core, a Pocahontas and John Smith fanfic. John Rolfe was surprisingly fun to write though so if he's more your type, you may enjoy this fic too. Thanks again for your time and consideration. Happy reading!

He looked at me with heavy eyes; I watched as he fought to keep them open.

"Pocahontas," he kept saying, as if he was afraid I was going to disappear. He'd been that way for a while now, drifting in and out of consciousness like the waves on which he'd come. Soon, they'd be taking him back.

I pushed a sweat soaked strand of hair back behind his ear and out of his eyes. It killed me to see him like this- sweating, shaking. His jaw was pulled tight, and all the color had drained from his face. The bandage that covered his wound was wet with blood and sweat. It took everything I had not to look at it.

"Shh," I whispered, mostly for him but also for me. I forced myself to focus on everything else: the light strands of hair on his arms, his fingers, the sheets.

"It's okay," I said. "You're gonna be okay."

Inside, I was screaming.

000

Hours Earlier

I returned to the glade to find John waiting. The sun had long since set, and Grandmother Willow's branches were drooping overhead. They moved in sad, slow circles as if to communicate that she knew too. If she did, she didn't say.

I threw my paddle onto the shore and climbed out of the canoe. John jumped down to help me.

"They're coming," I told him. "And not just my people but people from up the river too. Your village won't stand a chance."

That last part came out labored and wispy like a pant. His brow furrowed, and his jaw tightened, but other than that he didn't look the least bit phased. He didn't say anything, just finished pulling the canoe out of the water and stared off into the distance. Waiting. Or processing. Either way, the air was getting thicker, and the Earth was starting to shake. The life around us had grown strangely silent as if it were hiding and trying not to breathe. Down the river, there were drums. Nature's heartbeat. Or mine. I wasn't really sure.

"Why aren't you saying anything?" I asked, but even before he stood to face me, I already knew the answer. "Your people are planning the same thing," I said.

John slowly shook his head. I watched as he let out a long breath and ran a hand through his hair. I reached for him. He didn't pull back. Instead, he took my hand in his and led me further into the glade. Grandmother Willow had a root the size of a small bench so we sat on that and stared in silence down the river. A small fish splashed. The rest of the world looked on too.

John's hand was big and warm in mine, steady and sure, the exact opposite of how I felt. It was like being in the middle of a rapid with a big, giant rock heading right toward you and not being able to get around it. That was the kind of fear that was building up inside of me, the kind that was braced for pain (or something much worse) and got its fuel from the powerlessness that I felt to do anything about it. I could feel it now in the pit of my stomach, the realization that we were now on a ride that we couldn't get off of. Unlike John though, I wasn't done trying.

"We can't just let this happen," I finally said. Still, he refused to look at me.

"I'm not sure we have much of a choice," he replied. That set something off inside of me. I took my hand back and stood up.

"Tell me you don't mean that."

No sooner had the words left my mouth though than a terrible howl erupted through the forest. John pulled a knife from his boot and shot to his feet too. The next thing I knew, Meeko and Flit were flying through the bushes. Behind them was what looked like a barking, two-legged log. It crashed after Meeko and landed in my hands before wiggling free.

"Percy!" John said. And it was.

Once free of the log, he tore after Meeko, chomping at his tail and foaming at the mouth. Meeko, to his credit, leapt onto one of Grandmother Willow's branches before Percy could reach him and grabbed Flit to use as a sword. John yelled at Percy, and I yelled at Meeko, but it did nothing to stop the fighting.

"You see what I mean?" said John. "Once two sides want to fight, they quit listening to you."

Suddenly, the branch that was holding Meeko snapped in two, and the raccoon came tumbling down. Seeing his chance, the little dog lunged, and in his rage, he jumped too soon. Rather than latching onto Meeko's tail, he flew just under it and ended up in the water instead. If this wasn't the exact situation that we found ourselves in, it might have been kind of funny.

I caught Meeko and held him tight while John fished a defeated Percy out of the river. The dog didn't seem to know what had happened. When John pulled him out and placed him back on the shore, he took one look at me and Meeko and slumped over onto his stomach, exhausted.

After a few moments, Meeko slid down from my arms and tiptoed toward him. When he saw that Percy was shaking, he scurried back up Grandmother Willow's tree to the place where he kept all the things he scavenged. When he came back, he was carrying a little blanket which he promptly threw over Percy's sad, shivering shoulders.

"You were saying?" I said. "About there not being a choice?"

John looked at me with weary eyes and shook his head as if he understood.

"You're right," he said. "So what do we do?"

He was so close to me. I could feel the heat in his body as surely as I could see it in his eyes. My heart was racing. So was his. And this was the choice: love or death, peace or war, kiss or turn away.

He closed his eyes, and I closed mine, but here's the thing about taking too long to decide. If you don't do it, then someone else always will.

000

I didn't leave his side for most of the day. When he slept, I slept, and when he was awake, I ran a cool cloth over his head. I held his hand and promised him that it would be okay. He would survive this just as he had survived everything else, and when the time was right, we would find each other again. Lies.

"I can't leave you," he kept saying.

"I don't think you have much of a choice," I replied.

"There's always a choice," he said.

"Not if you want to live."

He grinned at that and inhaled sharply. His grip tightened around my hand, but I didn't wince or pull away. If I could have absorbed even an ounce of his pain, I would have. The tent opened up behind me, but I didn't take my eyes off John. Beside me someone asked,

"How is he?"

I didn't have to look to know it was Thomas. He pulled off his hat and knelt down next to me.

"The ship's almost ready," he told us. "John, if we don't get you on board soon, we'll lose the tide."

That's what he said. What he meant was, "If you stay here, you'll die."

John wasn't stupid. He knew exactly what Thomas was saying, and in an attempt to prove him wrong, he let go of my hand and tried to push himself up. He was back down before either of us could stop him.

"C'mon, mate. You know that just makes it worse."

"I'm fine," said John, but if he was white before, he was even whiter now. New drops of sweat pooled on his forehead, and his teeth were chattering again. He bit down to try to make them stop, but biting only made it worse. I could see him trying not to cry as the pain rattled his entire body.

"John," I said. "Please." My voice skidded over that last word. Please what, the voice inside my head said. Stop fighting? Go back? That last one stung a little. A lot.

I didn't want John to leave any more than he did. He could die here, but he could just as easily die on that boat too. Even if he did go back to London, there was no guarantee that he'd make it to his medicine man in time. Perhaps this is what he'd felt earlier when he said that there was no choice. Maybe now there really wasn't.

I could feel Thomas looking at me as I pushed John's hair back. It was slimy and damp. I didn't care. I watched his eyes close and his facial muscles relax under my touch. When his breathing slowed, I knew he'd fallen back asleep.

"He can't stay here," Thomas said. "Not if he's going to live."

"Maybe," I replied, but I wasn't really listening.

I remembered Kocoum's shriek as he barreled through the trees. I remembered Percy and Meeko scattering and what it felt like to have John ripped from my arms. A lot like now actually.

"Pocahontas, come with us," Thomas said, but I still couldn't hear him over the sound of my own memories.

Thwack, thwack.

Kocoum on top of John.

Me on top of Kocoum.

The tomahawk. The rock.

Behind me there was a shot, but only seconds after Kocoum had managed to throw me off of him. I hit the ground hard, banging my head on something sharp. My vision blurred. I could feel something hot and sticky running down the side of my face.

The Earth spun.

Voices. Feet. A scream.

Then nothing at all.

000

When I woke up, I was on a cot in my father's tent. No one was there- just me and the moon, but I could hear something going on outside. My head felt like someone had stuck an ice pick through it. It throbbed mercilessly as I pushed myself up. My legs shook underneath me, but I stumbled to the entrance anyway. I grabbed a post to steady myself and then peaked through the slit in the deer-skinned door. Behind it stood two guards.

They had their backs to me, but I knew who they were. Nomito and Nutomon were my father's most trusted sentries. With names like "see" and "hear," it was no wonder that nothing ever got past them- except maybe me.

Not far beyond their shoulders, I could just make out the flames of a huge fire. People were dancing. Preparing. Painting each other's bodies and praying. As was the custom, they would be up all night. Slowly, so as not to be detected, I tiptoed away from the door and back to bed.

What had happened out there?

I sat down on the bed and pushed the hair off my neck.

Dirt. Blood.

I brushed it out as best I could and wracked my brain for even the smallest recollection. Nothing.

When I opened my eyes, there was someone behind me.

"Daughter," he said. I braced myself, then turned to face him.

000

"Pocahontas," someone was saying. I don't know how many times he'd said it before I finally snapped back to reality.

"Walk with me," Thomas said. I looked at John who was fast asleep. Thomas must have sensed my hesitation because he put his hand on my shoulder and said, "C'mon. Just for a few minutes." Reluctantly, I followed him out of the tent and into the sunlight.

Outside the air was warm and balmy. The sun did cartwheels across my skin, and the breeze caressed my cheek as if to say, "It's okay. It will all be okay."

Thomas didn't say anything as we walked along the edge of the fort. All around us men were busy shuffling the last bit of supplies to the ship. None of them seemed to notice us as we slipped around the corner and toward the sea. Thomas walked with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on his feet- nervous, like he was afraid to even look at me. It was only when we reached the shore that he finally looked up, took a deep breath, and said,

"I'm sorry for shooting your friend."

My stomach turned. With everything that had happened in the last few hours, I hadn't given myself time to think, let alone process the fact that yes. Kocoum was dead, and it was all my fault. I chose John over him, defiance over my father's orders, and ultimately, the settlers over my own people.

I remembered the look on my father's face when he told me what I'd done. The moon shown on his ash colored cheeks. His eyes were dark and hard, his jaw set, and the disappointment that he wore was its own kind of body armor. What he said next hurt more than any weapon ever could.

"You have shamed me," he said which is why I could never do what Thomas was asking. No matter how badly I wanted to follow John back to London, I couldn't make the same mistake twice.

"I can't go with him," I said.

I know that wasn't the answer that Thomas was hoping for. Something along the lines of "I forgive you" or "Thank you" would have probably been preferred. Slowly, he turned to face me, and I could see my own guilt in his eyes.

"I never meant to kill anybody," he said. There were tears, but he wiped them away with a fist and a sigh. I think he was hoping I didn't notice. Carefully, I put a hand on his shoulder.

The truth was we'd all made choices. I chose John; Kocoum chose me, and Thomas chose to shoot. In the end, my father chose peace; Radcliffe chose war, and John chose to take the bullet that saved us all.

The thing about choices though is that they demand to be made, but they also demand to be lived with. I would live with mine the same way that Thomas lived with his: in the company of Acceptance and Remorse.

000  
John

When I woke up, she was gone. My whole body was heavy like someone had been sitting on it. Again, I pushed myself upward and was met with an intense pain. Carefully, I peeled back the dressing around my abdomen to inspect the damage. Sure enough, there was a small, black hole and an angry, red ring. Whether or not that was blood or the beginning of an infection, I wasn't entirely sure. Either way, Radcliffe had gotten me good.

I looked around at what used to be his tent. There were maps and trinkets, a tall wood-framed mirror, and a trunk of something that I could only assume were his personal effects. No one had bothered to pack for him. I guess almost getting us all killed didn't entitle him to any favors- not here and most certainly not on the ride home.

He was probably locked up in the bottom of the ship somewhere with all of his limbs tied and a dirty rag in his mouth. He'd get his three square meals a day and a court date because we were civilized like that, but if it were up to me, we would have left him with the Natives. To me, Radcliffe had gotten off easy and unlike him, my chances of making it back to England were more than slim.

If that red ring were any indication, I probably had a week, not even. As a soldier, I had seen plenty of gunshot wounds, and shots to the abdomen were the worst kind. It wasn't the bleeding that would get you. Depending on where the bullet hit, it was the slow spillage of toxins into your bloodstream that would eventually lead to your death.

Once an intestine or another organ was punctured, there was no telling what would leak out. Then came the fever and the chills, the vomiting when there was nothing to vomit, the shortness of breath, the racing heart, altered perceptions of reality, and ultimately, death itself. I had seen this happen too many times to other men, better men, and now it was my turn. Exhausted, I fell back against the pillow. Still, I would do it again.

Things I'd Remember about this Place

#1.) The stillness. Her. Reaching for her hand and being surprised when she didn't pull away. The river gurgled. The willows swayed softly in the breeze. For a moment, it was as if everything had stopped for us: life, time, impending doom.

I brought my forehead to hers and closed my eyes. This. This was where I wanted to be for the rest of my life. I wanted to kiss her then, but to move even just an inch would roll the world forward again.

Life. Time. Impending doom. You know the story.

When the Earth started spinning again, it spun right off its axle, and like dominoes, we went tumbling after it.

#2.) That deafening shriek and the life leaving my lungs as my back hit the ground. I couldn't breathe, but I didn't have time to recover before someone was swinging a hammer over my head. A man, I think. I caught him by the wrist and managed to flip him off of me. Clumsily, I rolled to my knees, but by the time I lifted my head, he was already coming back at me, this time with a knife.

"Kocoum, no!"

The man's rage was all consuming. He pushed the knife that was really just a sharp rock up to my neck. His eyes were angry. Black slits blaring into mine. Pocahontas tried her best to pull him off of me. He threw her to the ground. A shot rang out. Then the body on top of me went limp.

#3.) I remember throwing the rock aside and rolling him off of me. Pocahontas laid a few feet away. In the distance, I could hear more yelling, feet thudding, bodies crashing through the trees.

"Pocahontas," I said. No response.

"Are they dead?" someone else asked.

Only then did I notice him.

In my head, I knew that Thomas was well into his twenties. At that moment though, he looked no more than twelve. That gun was too big for him both physically and psychologically. As I crawled toward Pocahontas, I could see the weight of what that weapon had done crushing him from his eyebrows down.

The voices were getting closer now.

"Thomas, run!" I said.

He didn't move.

"Thomas!" I said again.

An avalanche of arms descended on me. They yanked me away from Pocahontas and onto my feet. When I looked up, Thomas was gone.

000

I don't have many habits- good or bad. But being captured? That's something I know a little bit about.

The Dos and Don'ts of Captivity

#1.) Don't fight it. Unless of course you want to get your head bashed in. Even if you think you can, I don't recommend it.

#2.) Don't. Say. Anything.

Ninety-nine percent of the time, you won't understand them, and nine times out of ten, they'll just laugh at you anyway. Or bash your head in.

#3.) Get used to being uncomfortable. Cold? Yep. Hungry? Sure. Tied up with something prickly? Absolutely. That last one is pretty much guaranteed.

#4.) Sleep. Even if you don't feel like it.

#5.) Befriend the guards. Where there is a Brutus, there is almost always a Sympathizer.

#6.) And lastly, your captor's daughter. Hopefully you're already in love with her because she just might be the difference between this life and the next.

000  
More Things I'd Remember

#4.) Her skin. The sense that she was in the tent with me even though she wasn't. I remember playing those last few moments over and over again in my mind. I remember her lying there and not being able to do anything to help her. I remember thinking they'd think I did this too. Not only did I murder one of their men, but I also hurt their princess. That last part was unbearable. It also wasn't true.

#5.) I remember staring up at the hole in the roof and coming to terms with the fact that this was not going to end well. Radcliffe would attack, and I would die, and if Pocahontas didn't get far, far away from here, she would too. I remember hoping that her father was smart enough to make that happen. That much, at least, we could both agree on.

#6.) Somewhere along the line I fell asleep. I remember being woken from it. Hard.

#7.) I remember the ache in my neck and the splinter in my knees as I tried to walk after being on them all night. I remember the rope around my neck, the way it dug into my skin, and the prickly sensation in my hands from having my wrists tied and the blood flow restricted all night. I remember blinding sunlight and falling. A lot.

#8.) I remember the splitting headache as they slammed my head against the rock. I remember making the mistake of looking up and seeing the club. My stomach lurched, and if I hadn't already been so resigned to the inevitable, I would have thrown up right there.

#9.) I remember closing my eyes and bracing myself. I remember thinking that this was it. I remember when it wasn't.

#10.) I remember when something soft and warm threw itself over me. She cradled my head in her arms and covered my face with her hair. I couldn't see, but I could hear.

"Get back," the Chief must have said. She didn't move. Instead, she proceeded to argue with him. I could only guess what was said, but I'm pretty sure I had an idea. Some things transcend even the biggest barriers. Even language. Even hate. Love is one of them.

#11.) I wish I could say that I was completely calm throughout the entire exchange, that having her over me allowed me to relax a little. It didn't. Even after they cut me free, my muscles were stiff, and my heart was still threatening to throw itself out of my chest. Even if it had, I'm pretty sure she would have caught it. As it were, I caught her instead.

#12.) I only got to hold her for a few seconds before I saw it:

Radcliffe with the gun.

The Chief in the way.

Love transcends a lot of things. Bullets are not one of them.

000  
Pocahontas

It was time. The ship was ready; the crew was on board. There was a steady wind, and Radcliffe was securely stowed (or so Thomas had told me.) The only thing that was missing was John.

I waited until they brought him out before I said goodbye. I did this because I knew that if I went back into that tent, neither of us were coming out. We'd stay there wrapped up in each other's arms. He'd hold half my face in his hand while I soaked him with my tears. He'd whisper sweet assurances like "It was all going to be okay" and "He'd always be with me" even though we'd both know that wasn't the truth.

I'd press my forehead to his and close my eyes, hoping that when I opened them this would all be a dream. A nightmare even. In those last few moments, he'd try to change my mind about leaving. Or letting him stay. I would think about it, and it would sound like something we could do. I might even agree.

I watched as they carried him down to the shore. The closer they got, the tighter my chest became. I could feel that place behind my eyes begin to prickle, but I was determined to hold it all in. Even it meant exploding later. Even if it meant not breathing now.

They'd put a blanket over him, and the light from the sun made him look even more pale. As they brought him up beside me, I took his hand. It was cold and clammy, not warm and reassuring like it usually was.

"You sure you don't want to come?" he asked. His eyebrows were raised, and he was half smiling.

"I can't," I said, but man how I wanted to.

I could tell that the men holding him were getting impatient so I bent down and kissed him, not long, just long enough to communicate all the things that I didn't have time to say out loud: that this was the hardest thing I'd ever had to do, that if I could go with him, I would. That if he could stay, I'd want that too.

"I will come back," he said. "I promise."

I wiped a stray tear from my eye and another bead of sweat from his face.

"Time to go, John," Thomas said. I could tell that his arms were getting tired so I nodded my head and let go of John's hand.

I couldn't watch his face as they carried him away. It was too painful, and I knew that if I did, I'd probably go after him. It was cowardly, but I looked at my feet instead. When I looked up, he was sailing away.


	2. Changes

John Rolfe  
The Atlantic  
Two Years Later

I was watching the sun set over the banister when Reverend Alexander interrupted my thoughts.

"You alright, John?"

I didn't answer. We'd been at sea for almost eight weeks now with no sign of land in sight. The water beat the side of the ship like angry fists, and if I could have hit something, I would have too.

Eight weeks at sea and eleven weeks without her.

These days I went back and forth between being numb and angry. Tonight I was angry. The Reverend must have sensed that because he didn't push any further, just stood there beside me as the sun disappeared and night descended.

The sky was a heavy purple. Overhead, I could see the beginnings of stars.

"Sarah," I finally said, but that was all I could get out.

What I wanted to say was that she should have been here. She should have been leaning over the railing with her hands folded and her eyes closed, breathing in the smell of the sea, and adjusting her head to keep the hair out of her face. I should've had my arm around her waist, holding her, making sure she was steady. Instead, I was standing next to Reverend Alexander.

"I know," he said. "I wish she were here too."

Although they'd only just met, Sarah and the Reverend had become fast friends. He wasn't that much older than us, maybe a year or two. They talked philosophy and God and me.

"She loved you," Reverend Alexander said.

I wish I could have heard that in the end.

I felt around in my pocket for the bag of seeds. I'd been carrying them since before we left Trinidad, and every now and then I'd roll them between my fingers or pull them out entirely. These. These were what I had gone to town for. They were supposed to be our livelihood, the beginnings of a home and a plantation in a far off place where we were supposed to build a life and a family together. Instead, they were the reason she'd died alone.

My hand closed over the bag, and I thought about throwing it overboard then. I'd thought about that a lot lately. Maybe it was because Reverend Alexander was there. Maybe it was because it was all I had left of her. This. Our whole reason for going to Virginia in the first place. I guess that's why I took my hand out of my pocket and placed it back on the banister. The little bag fell back against my leg. I carried it the same way I carried Sarah: close and tucked away.

000  
Pocahontas  
Two Weeks Later

It was winter again. The trees were frosted over, and the air had a slight bite to it. It pinched my skin as I made my way toward Jamestown to deliver, not food, but even more bad news. Thanks to a bad growing season, the Village barely had enough food to feed itself, let alone an entire colony. As a result, all trading would cease until further notice.

I could just see the look on that new captain's face when I told him what my father had decided. Argall, I think his name was. I'd only dealt with him a handful of times, but every time I did, he was rude and dismissive. He had hair on his face that reminded me of Meeko's tail, broad shoulders, and a boulder sized chest that shoved everyone else aside (opinions and all) when he walked into a room. In that way, he reminded me a lot of Radcliffe. Apparently, the settlers had a type.

Thankfully, I wasn't going to deliver the message alone. Nomito and Nutomon were attached to me like shadows. Since John Smith had returned to England, my father didn't think it was safe for me to go to Jamestown by myself anymore. Funny how you could go from wanting someone dead to trusting them to protect the most important thing in the world to you. I guess jumping in front of a bullet warranted that kind of change.

I pushed the thought away as we neared the fort's gates. Some things were just too painful to keep revisiting. What happened to John was one of them.

000

Inside, Jamestown was a lot fuller than I remembered. Even within the last couple weeks, the number of buildings seemed to have doubled and, with it, the number of people. I remembered when it was just a hundred or so men in tents. Now, it seemed, they had brought their entire families too.

The women of this culture were so restrained. I couldn't imagine dressing in that many layers and still being expected to move. In the winter, the extra clothing probably kept them warm, but in the summer? They had to be hot and uncomfortable.

As I passed them on the street, I always thought that the layers were one thing. How they managed to turn their heads with those things over their hair and under their chins was another. But maybe that was the way their culture liked them: grounded and focused, too anchored to even think about stepping out. And silent. Their culture must have liked them silent because I didn't think I'd ever heard any of them speak, not in the presence of their men and most definitely not in passing. The whole thing seemed a little dehumanizing to me, but what did I know? What I did know was that I'd be dead before anyone ever did that to me. That much was absolutely certain.

Captain Argall's office was located at the very back of the fort, closest to the sea. It was a tall, wooden structure with two little windows and a big, imposing door. It had a metal thing in the center that I had learned to hold and then pound against the door when I needed something. In this culture, they called that knocking.

When it came to summoning Argall, I had a routine. As usual, I took two deep breaths, put my fingers around the metal thing, and rapped the door three times before taking a step back. Behind me, Namito and Nutomon let out a deep, collective sigh. They never said as much, but I had a feeling they hated these errands as much as I did. Food running I could do, but this game of go-between was getting old.

When the door opened, it wasn't Argall who answered; it was a member of his council.

"Pocahontas!" he said. "Do come in."

This guy was a little bit younger and smaller than Argall, but like the Captain, he too had hair on his face. It was long and scraggly. I wondered if it ever itched.

"Captain Argall is just finishing up another meeting," the man said, ushering us inside. "Can I get you anything while you're waiting? Water? Tea? A glass of wine?"

I wasn't sure what those last two were, but I declined all three.

"That's alright," I said. "We won't take up too much of his time."

As it turned out, he wouldn't take much of ours either. No sooner had the words left my mouth than Captain Argall appeared in the hallway. No matter how many times I did one of these deliveries, I never could get used to the way he took up entire door frames. The man with the itchy beard stepped aside.

"Pocahontas," Argall said. For some reason, it sounded a lot less friendly. When he noticed Nomito and Nutomon behind me, he rolled his eyes and sighed. "Right," he said. "This way." He gestured for us to follow, and I reluctantly stepped into his study.

Inside was a fire place, a desk, piles of paper, and a few wooden chairs. Namito and Nutomon held back as Argall slipped behind his desk. Although he motioned for me to sit too, I chose to stand. This wouldn't take long.

Argall raised his eyebrows.

"Everything alright?" he asked, although I suspected he already knew. Without taking his eyes off me, he lowered himself into his chair. Probably a good thing.

"No, not really," I replied. "The harvests at the end of the fall were bad. We no longer have the ability to feed your people and ours."

What I said, I said matter-of-factly, with a straight face, exactly as I was supposed to. Inside, I was bracing for the kickback. You didn't just drop a bomb like that and expect someone to react warmly.

Argall didn't say anything at first, just closed his eyes and started rubbing his forehead as if I'd unleashed a massive headache. In a way, I suppose I had.

"So what you're saying is..?"

"Trading stops."

I don't know exactly what I was expecting, but silence most definitely wasn't it. I stood there for a few minutes waiting for him to say something, and the more time that passed, the thicker the air became. Eventually, I had no choice but to excuse myself. Nomito and Nutomon followed.

As we stepped back out into the cold, that should have been the end of it. I should have been relieved to be done and on my way home again. Instead, I couldn't help but worry about what we'd just done.

Though it was true that the Tribe couldn't possibly sustain itself and the settlers after the season we'd had, I couldn't help but think that our reasons wouldn't be good enough. Something was coming. I didn't know what; I didn't know when, but if I knew Captain Argall even a little bit, I also knew that he wouldn't take this lying down. Like a mother bear, he would do whatever it took to sustain both himself and his baby colony.

My father must have known this too because he looked grieved when I went to tell him the news. His eyes were sunken, and he looked as if he hadn't slept in days. In the center of the longhouse, the fire crackled absentmindedly. I watched as the smoke drifted up through the hole in the roof and then disappeared into the sky. I think that if he could have, Father would have willed this to disappear too. 

Suddenly chilled, I wrapped my arms around my stomach and held them tight. In times like these, I tried not to think about what John would say if he were still here. I'd like to think he'd put Argall in his place and find another way, but maybe that was just wishful thinking. In the end, John was just as powerless as I was. That didn't stop me from wishing he were there though.

Sometimes when I crossed my arms and closed my eyes, I could still feel him holding me. Sometimes when I went to sleep, I could feel it too.

My father must have sensed the direction of my thoughts because he came over and put his arms around me.

"I know this has been hard," he said. "Going back to that place. But John Smith wouldn't want you to be sad for him."

That was only the second time my father had ever used his name. The first time was shortly after John had saved his life.

"What am I going to do?" I asked. Some days I was so good at putting one foot in front of the other and stuffing it all away. Other days I was a wave waiting to break. I tossed and turned and rolled forward until I hit the shore and spilled over. Today was one of those days.

In the quiet of the longhouse, I clung to my father, wondering if it would always be like this or if eventually the loss would change. Would it get gentler, quieter, less raw and jagged around the edges? I wouldn't have time to find out.

Outside something exploded and with it, everything I knew.

000  
Captain Argall

They had to have known this was coming, and even if they didn't, she most definitely did. I could see it in the way she scurried out of my office and then back up the road. I watched her and her two guards until they disappeared behind the gate. Stop trading? With me? Not a chance.

Clearly those Natives had no idea who they were dealing with. One did not simply "stop" trading with England. And if it were a choice between our people starving and their villages burning, we would burn their villages every time. This evening, my men were under strict orders to destroy their homes and take whatever they could find: food, tools, supplies, and above all the Princess herself.

If anything would make the Chief rescind his decision and continue to supply us, it would be his favorite daughter. Surely, he'd stop at nothing to get her back, and by the time he did, perhaps he'd have figured out how to farm better. More importantly, he'd remember who was actually in charge.

A knock on my door interrupted my thoughts. It was too early for them to be back already.

"Come in," I said, turning away from the window.

"Captain," Amos said. "Minister Whitaker is here to see you."

The Church. I'd completely forgotten about that. Although it was about time this town had a place of worship, it wasn't exactly high on my priority list.

"Send him in," I replied.

The man that followed was a lot younger than I expected him to be. While I had been picturing someone well into their fifties, the man that stood before me couldn't have been more than thirty.

Minister Whitaker was tall and clean shaven. He was wearing trousers instead of robes, and if I had seen him walking down the street, I would have thought he was someone's apprentice, not a leader of the Church. Maybe that was the point though. Maybe they thought he'd last longer.

I stood up and extended my hand.

"Nice to meet you, Reverend. Welcome to Jamestown."

"Thank you," he said, shaking my hand. "Pleasure to meet you as well." I sat back down, gesturing for him to sit too.

"I trust your journey went well?" I said. "Is there anything I can get you? A brandy? Tea?"

"No. Thank you, Captain," he said. "I won't keep you. I just wanted to introduce myself and pick up the keys to the church, maybe even ask you a few questions about the community if you don't mind?"

"The community?"

"My clientele," he replied. "And..." He looked down at his lap as he said what came next. "The Natives."

I should have known that would be a concern for him. It was a concern for us all. Most of us knew how to handle a gun though. I couldn't say the same for a man in his position.

"They're being handled," I replied. And they were. Even as we spoke.

"No, that's not what I meant," said the Reverend. "I'm not worried about safety so much as them. As people."

And there it was. The real reason this young, strapping, man of God had left the comfort of England for the chaos of Virginia. He was an evangelist who thought he could save everyone with religion. I choked back a laugh. The whole thing was absurd, but it might be fun to let him try.

The Reverend must have sensed my thoughts because he sat back and looked down at his hands again. If he didn't look like a little kid before, he definitely did now.

"I just think," he said, "that everyone deserves to have the hope that we do, and I wouldn't be fulfilling my vows if I didn't include the Natives in my ministry too."

This was all very touching and pathetic, but suddenly, I had an idea. If the Revered wanted to convert the Natives so badly, I knew exactly who he could start with.

"There's a princess coming in from one of the villages tonight," I said. "She'll need a place to stay and someone to look after her. Perhaps you could introduce her to God too."

000  
Pocahontas  
Werowocomoco  
Argall's Attack

"Stay here," my father said as he tore out of the longhouse. Outside, people were screaming; shots were being fired. I could hear them zipping past the entrance of the tent, making contact with bodies. Less than a few feet away from me, someone fell, and their arm crashed through the slit in the doorway. I screamed, staring at the open hand that was too small to be my father's. It didn't help.

Behind me, something was burning. At first, I thought it was the fire that we had started. It wasn't. I watched in horror as the flames swept up the wall, and a wave of smoke barreled toward me. It beat the breath right out of my lungs and burned my eyes so that I couldn't see where I was going. Desperately, I threw my hand over my face and took off in the direction of the screaming.

I tripped over the body outside the door and skidded across the frostbitten ground. The air had turned a sickly grey. Above me, everything was spinning. My entire side stung as I rolled to my feet, but I didn't dare stop to look. The people who could were running toward the woods. I took off after them, shedding my humanity as I did so.

I was not a person anymore. I was legs. I was lungs, a heartbeat, breath. Then I was on the ground.

Someone I didn't see tackled me to my knees and rolled me onto my stomach where they sat on my back and yanked my hands behind my head. With my face in the dirt, I inhaled a mouthful of dust. Coughing ensued. My final thoughts: This was it, and I was going to suffocate.

000  
John Rolfe

Outside, night had fallen, and I'd spent the last forty-five minutes pacing the length of my new quarters. It was eerily quiet without the waves pummeling the walls or a crew stomping above. I looked around at the dusty floor and the bare walls. What little furniture I did have was sparse and spread out. If Sarah were here, it wouldn't look like this.

Suddenly exhausted, I laid down on my bed and stared up at the ceiling. I still hadn't gotten used to having the whole thing to myself. Under any other (temporary) circumstances, I probably would have enjoyed it.

In the early days of our marriage, Sarah had this habit of wrapping her legs around my waist. She'd make me sweat and push me off the bed, steal all the covers, and snore. God, would she snore. Tonight though, I would have given anything to have that back.

Lately, my evenings consisted of about three things: pacing, staring off into space, and moments like these when the air moved in and out of my lungs, but I still felt deceased. After Reverend Alexander had his meeting with the Captain and got the keys to the church, we had dinner in the kitchen of his new home. I guess he didn't want me to be alone. The problem, however, was not that I was alone but that all the company in the world wouldn't fill the Sarah sized hole inside of me. No. That void was unfillable- by friends, by food, even God Himself.

The Reverend prayed over me before I left. I wish I could say it helped.

As I left the Reverend's house and started toward my own, there was a commotion down the street, a group of men, though I couldn't really see. They turned toward the Captain's office and disappeared behind a building. I thought about following them then. Depression debilitates, but it also makes you reckless.

I didn't know what I'd do when I caught up with them. As I approached my own door, I could hear protests, and I knew that someone was being arrested. If I had to guess, it was either a Native or a stowaway. It didn't matter. I could still jump the guards and set them free.

Standing in my doorway, I let myself fantasize about being captured and charged with treason. At least if they hung me, I'd finally be as dead as I felt. I thought about it. I really did, but then I put my hand on the knob, turned it, and went inside. Only God knew why.

000  
Reverend Alexander

After John left, I went to the sanctuary to pray. I prayed for John and his wellbeing. I prayed for Sarah and her new life with Christ, and when I'd exhausted all the ways I could intercede for the Church and the colony, I started asking God about the Natives, most notably the Princess whose care I was about to inherit.

If I were being honest, I wasn't entirely on board with the Captain's proposition. I was a missionary, not a prison guard, and I didn't much like the idea of getting involved in the Captain's politics. I was here for one reason and one reason only- to further the Kingdom- God's kingdom, and even though introducing the Natives to Christ was what I'd been called to the New World to do, a hostage situation just didn't seem like the time or place to do it.

A knock on the door made me jump.

"Reverend Whitaker," someone said. "Your presence has been requested in the Captain's quarters."

Whatever wisdom the Lord had for me would have to wait. Duty, for all of its compromise and treachery, had finally called.

000  
Captain Argall

"Captain, they're here."

"Bring her in," I said. It was time.

000  
Pocahontas

The walk to Jamestown was a slow and cold one. Between staring at my feet and trying to ignore the pain in my hip, I had plenty of time to contemplate all the worst scenarios- for myself, but also for my people. I had not stopped to count the bodies. I hadn't even seen who'd gotten away. I hoped my father had been one of them. I imagined him gathering those that were left and moving them to some place safe. I did not want to imagine the look on his face when he noticed that I was missing.

In all honesty, I knew that this would happen, not that I'd be kidnapped, but that Jamestown would not stand for a cease trade. I knew that they would retaliate; I just didn't expect it to be this soon. I thought we'd have more time. I was wrong. If I'd learned anything, it was that there was no such thing.

000

I waited until I was on Captain Argall's street before I allowed myself to be scared. I thought we were going to his office, but we continued for another block and turned in a different direction. With my hands behind my back, they walked me to the back side of a different building. I suppose it was because they didn't want anyone to see. Not that I was surprised. Good deeds didn't need back doors.

Someone must have been watching because it opened without knocking. When it did, they pushed me inside.

000

The room that I found myself in was darker and mustier than I expected. Argall was there along with a couple of his councilmen and another man that I didn't' recognize. He was draped in white and lantern light but couldn't have been much older than myself.

"Welcome back," Argall said. "I trust you got our message?"

"If by message you mean invitation to war, then yes," I said. "You were loud and clear."

The men behind me tightened their grip around my wrists. I winced. Argall smiled.

"Maybe," he said, "But if the Chief wants you back, he'll go a different route."

This was bigger than a trade agreement now. I could feel it.

"What do you mean?" I said. "What do you want?"

The man I didn't know looked at me with sad, apologetic eyes. I could tell that he didn't really want to be there.

"It's more what I don't want," Argall replied, taking a step forward. "I don't want the colony to die."

"Neither do we," I started to say, but Argall held up his hand, interrupting me.

"So until we get this mess figured out," he continued, "you'll be under the care of Reverend Whitaker."

The man in the white stepped forward. Suddenly his unease made so much more sense. Like me, he was also a piece in a game that he didn't want to play.

"We'll get you taped up," he promised.

Taped up? Was that the same thing as tied up? It occurred to me to ask, but the next thing I knew I was being led away. Behind me, the man in white followed.


	3. Chapels and Chains

Reverend Alexander

"You can take those off now," I said to the men behind her. I would have had them off sooner, but I had to wait until we were inside the house. The men looked at me but did as I said. When the ropes were off, they left.

"I'm sorry," I said. "For all of this." She didn't say anything, just rubbed her wrists and refused to look at me. Her cheek was scraped, and there was dirt in her hair. A long, angry slit ran the length of her forearm.

"Can I- can I help you with that?" I asked, gesturing toward her arm. Still no answer.

"Please?" I asked. She looked at me then. I didn't blame her for not trusting me. I wouldn't have either. Eventually, she nodded, and I motioned toward the kitchen where the town physician appeared.

Earlier that evening, I'd asked him to let himself in the back and wait there until we were ready for him. I didn't want him to scare her any more than Argall (or I) already had. It didn't help. She took a step backward.

"It's alright," I said. "He's just here to help." I gestured for her to sit. She didn't.

"I can fix it standing up too," he said. He was holding a cloth and some kind of solution in his hand. "It's okay," he said again. "I just want to help."

The physician took a step toward her. She didn't move away. Slowly, he reached for her.

"Please?"

000

When he had finished wrapping her arm, I gave her a tour of the house. I showed her where she could wash up, where she could go to the bathroom, and where she'd be spending her nights.

The room that I had set up for her was just up the stairs. It had a bed and a wardrobe with a bunch of clothes that had been donated before I left London. I was sure that there was something in there that would fit her, but we could talk about that later. Right now, I just wanted her to feel like she could rest. It had been a long night.

"I'll be right downstairs if you need anything," I said as she lowered herself onto the bed. "I hope you don't mind bread for breakfast. It's all I have right now."

I noticed I was rambling so I stopped.

"Well, good night," I said. Then I closed the door and went downstairs.

000

This was not at all how I'd pictured my ministry in Jamestown to start out. When I accepted the assignment, I did so because I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought I was being faithful in bringing Jesus to the wilderness, but there was nothing faithful about this, nothing right or righteous about holding someone against their will.

The whole way to Argall's, my stomach turned. This was not what I wanted to be doing, not at all, and when they brought her in, I very nearly told Argall so. Everything about this was wrong. I knew it from the second he'd suggested the arrangement that afternoon.

She looked like an animal that had been cornered and tossed around, and even though she hid it well, only a fool would think she wasn't at least a little bit afraid... No. This woman had been through hell, and instead of meeting her with mercy, I'd made myself a piece in Argall's political game. There were not enough prayers in the world for this. I was stuck, and so was she.

000

The next morning, the princess didn't come out of her room. No matter how many times I invited her downstairs, she was having none of it. Eventually, I just started leaving meals outside her door. I told her that I would be downstairs praying if she needed anything. Still, I was met with silence. When I came back up with dinner though, I was happy to see that the food I'd left before was gone. At least she was eating.

000  
Pocahontas

The sun had come up twice since I'd been brought to the Reverend's house. The room that I found myself in was warm and quiet. I had a place to sleep and a window that over looked the street. It was too high to climb out of though; I'd already tried, and even if I did somehow manage to make it down, there was another window directly underneath. Across the street lived one of Argall's councilmen. (I knew because I'd seen him return home the evening before.) It didn't take long to realize there was no good way to escape, not without getting caught anyway,

Every once in a while the Reverend would come up to check on me. He'd ask how I was doing and assure me (once again) that I could come downstairs at any time. When I didn't respond, he'd tell me that there was food and leave. That was the extent of my interactions with him since the first night. He knocked; he brought food; he left. We did that for four more sunrises until the sixth one when I heard voices downstairs.

They were low and muffled so I couldn't understand what they were saying, but both windows were open, and it sounded like someone was crying. Carefully, I lifted myself off the bed and tiptoed toward the door.

I don't know what made me open it. Maybe it was being locked up and alone for the last six days. Maybe it was all the crying I'd done myself. Either way, I cracked the door and pressed my ear to the space between.

"I don't think I can do this anymore," someone was saying, a man I think. The Reverend didn't say anything, just sat with him and listened while he did all the talking.

"I miss her so much, it hurts," said the man, "and I know I sound like every widower that's ever lived, but it's true. I can't do this without her."

His voice broke over that last part, but still the Reverend said nothing. What could he? I thought back to my own experience with grief. When people are in that place, they don't hear you anyway. All they hear is the sound of their own suffering and the roar of that space where the person they loved used to be. It's empty, but it's loud, and even now, the irony is not lost on me.

Even with the benefit of time and distance and another dire situation to deal with, it's still there. It never really leaves you; you just get used to living with it. Or so I told myself. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't still learning to live with it.

"You said something interesting," the Reverend finally said.

"Did I?" the man asked.

"Yeah," said the Reverend. "You said 'every widower that's ever lived.'"

"And?"

"They live. I know it doesn't feel like it right now. It might not for a very long time, but you are living," he said. "You are."

I didn't wait for the man to reply before I slipped back inside and closed the door. I rubbed my arm where their medicine man had wrapped it nearly a week ago. When I'd removed the bandage, I found that it had scabbed over and started to heal.

When I was little, I remembered my father saying that as long as I didn't pick at it, it would go away. I wondered if grief was like that too, like maybe if we'd all just stop picking at it, it too would disappear. I never found out. Then, as now, I had this nasty habit of picking anyway.

000

That night, I had a dream about John Smith. We were on the top floor of a building that I didn't recognize. It was night time so there was a fire going, and he was bent over a table studying something.

"John?" I said. He didn't seem to hear me. Suddenly, there was a crash downstairs.

"John," I said again, but he didn't acknowledge me. I watched him grab a bucket by the fire and put it out. Without the light, I couldn't see where he'd gone. If he'd moved at all, I couldn't hear him over the smashing and trampling below.

"Where is he?!" someone shouted.

"Quick! Up the stairs!"

Panicked, I dropped to my knees and scurried toward the table that John had been standing at. I felt my way under it and then made myself as small as I possibly could.

Another crash. More feet on the landing. I put my hand over my mouth to keep from breathing.

"I can't see anything," someone said.

"So find a light. God, do I have to do everything around here?"

I could hear them circling the table now. They were loud and clanky, feeling around in the dark but for what, I wasn't entirely sure. Whatever it was, I hoped they didn't find it.

One of them must have tripped over something because there was another crash and a yell.

"God dammit!"

"Quiet!" said the other one. "If we lose him, it'll be all your fault."

I doubted that, but I was kind of starting to think they already had. As for me, I wasn't going anywhere. All of a sudden, bodies were banging together, and a third person had joined the tussle.

"Get him, not me, you idiot!"

I listened as they threw each other around. Fists collided. Someone got it in the gut and then the face. They fell to the floor right beside me. Carefully, I slipped out from under the table and toward the back of the room. There was a window that looked like it could get you onto the roof. I wondered if I could open it without anyone noticing. Beneath us, I heard more yelling.

A light appeared in the stairway, and I was both relieved and terrified to see John hurling the other man into a wall. There was a shelf with some stuff on top of it. It came down on the man, and he crumpled to the ground.

"Well, well, well," the person in the stairway said. "It seems you've healed quite nicely." That voice. I recognized it, and sure enough a big, burly man with long, graying hair and a bird's beak nose stepped into view. Something between terror and rage erupted inside of me, but I stayed where I was.

He didn't notice me, just continued to stare at John who was bent over breathing heavily. His eyes were like gleaming, black slits inside of his face, and his mouth was turned up in a sickening smile.

"Radcliffe," John said, standing up straighter. "Aren't you supposed to be in jail?"

"Funny you should mention that," he said, taking another step into the light. I watched as his eyes surveyed the mess on the floor and the two men strewn across the room. He rolled his eyes and sighed. "I take it they didn't get to that part."

"What part?"

"The part where you, Smith, are the one under arrest."

"Me? For what?"

"Why treason of course." There was a slight laugh in his response as if he'd just told a joke only he could understand.

"I don't get it," said John. Neither did I.

"Think, Smith," said Radcliffe. "Think really hard."

John just stared at him. I did too.

"No?" said Radcliffe. "I'll give you a hint." He drew himself up to his full height before lowering himself into John's face. What he said next made my face burn. "Savage. Whore."

John grabbed him by the collar and pulled it tight around his throat.

"She has nothing to do with this," he snarled.

I thought maybe he was going to throw Radcliffe down the stairs, but that wasn't what happened. Instead, Radcliffe closed his hand around John's fist to loosen his grip. With his other hand, he set the light on the banister and reached around.

"She has everything to do with it," he whispered. "You thought you could choose them over us and get away with it?"

The two men's noses were nearly touching now. I watched as John tightened his grip while Radcliffe kept trying to loosen it. His other hand had disappeared. My stomach lurched. On the floor, the men in armor began to stir. Something wasn't right.

"That shot wasn't necessary," said John. "They were backing down."

"No," said Radcliffe. "They weren't. But they will."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked John, but neither of us would find out.

I watched, paralyzed, as Radcliffe pulled a knife with his free hand and slashed it across John's side. John collapsed. I screamed. No one looked at me.

When I woke up, the Reverend was standing over me.

000

"I'm sorry," he said. "I knocked, but you wouldn't stop screaming. I was afraid something was wrong."

Something was wrong, but I wasn't about to tell him that.

When I sat up, the corners of my eyes were wet. Outside, the sun had risen and was just starting to peek into the room. It was warm and comforting on my cold, prickly skin. I brushed the tears with the back of my hand.

"Do you want to talk about it?" the Reverend asked. I didn't so I shook my head. He didn't look surprised. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him lift his hand as if to touch me and then take it back.

"Well there's breakfast downstairs if you want it. I'm sorry I can't let you stay up here by yourself today."

"Why's that?" I asked. His eyes got big, and his mouth fell open a little. Words. I know. I was aware. He looked down at the floor and took a step back.

"Well, it's Sunday," he said. Then, realizing that didn't mean anything to me, he added, "I'm doing service at the church today."

Still nothing. My face must have given me away because he walked over to this big, wooden thing in the corner, opened the door, and started going through it. Behind him, I could see all kinds of fabric and things I'd seen on people's feet. They were reflected in the mirror on the inside of the door. A few moments later, he pulled out a long, pink dress, a pair of white, feet things, and a head piece, the same one that kept Jamestown women from looking anywhere but straight ahead.

"Forget it," I said. "I'm not wearing that." I knew I probably sounded half my age, but I didn't care. I'd put myself in chains before I walked out of the house in that.

The Reverend looked at me and then at the dress. Sighing, he laid it on the bed.

"You're welcome to have a look yourself, but you do have to wear something."

"I am wearing something," I said, pulling back the sheets to reveal the long, deer skinned tunic and pants that I'd arrived in. Could I use a change and a wash? Yes, but not like this and not that badly. The Reverend looked at me and took a deep breath.

"You can't wear that to church," he said.

"And why not?"

I one hundred percent expected him to say it wasn't good enough. What he said instead was,

"You've been wearing it every day for the last week."

I wanted to argue. I really did, but the sleeves were dirty from where I'd fallen, and when I pressed my nose to it, I could still smell the remnants of smoke.

"Fine," I said. "But I'm not wearing that head thing."

"You mean the bonnet?" asked the Reverend, smiling.

"Whatever you call it," I said.

There was a tiny light in his eye as he turned to leave, as if I'd said something that made him laugh. It made me feel bad for snapping at him. As far as guards went, I really could've done worse.

"Okay," he said, starting toward the door. He stood there for a minute, then turned back and said, "I know we didn't exactly get a proper introduction. I am Reverend Whitaker, but you can just call me Alex."

"Alex?" I asked.

"It's short for Alexander," he said. "That's what my family calls me." I wasn't sure why he was telling me this, but it was good to have something other than "Reverend" to call him. What a strange name anyway.

"Pocahontas," I replied.

"Pocahontas?" he said, as if he wasn't sure he'd heard me right. Or maybe he was just trying it out.

"That's what my family calls me," I said. He smiled then.

"Pocahontas," he repeated. "It's nice to finally meet you."

"You too, Alex."

He nodded and then left, shutting the door behind him. I looked at the dress he'd left on the bed. This was going to be interesting.

000

As it turned out, "church" was just the English word for a spiritual gathering of sort. We had these too, but they were always outside, and instead of a man in a white robe, ours was led by the village medicine man. There was no big, wooden box for our leader to stand behind, no places but the ground for us to sit. We didn't walk with fire or carry metal sticks. We did have smoke that smelled though. That much was familiar.

I sat in the front row as Alex instructed.

"Just do what they do," he said, gesturing to the people around us. "You'll be fine." Then he smiled and disappeared into the crowd.

I surveyed my surroundings as people filed in. There were women and children, some I recognized, some I didn't, a handful of councilmen, and two or three men from the original settlement. They nodded when they saw me, exchanging sympathetic looks because they knew. I nodded back and then sunk in my seat. I still hadn't seen Argall, but maybe that was a good thing.

When the music started, everyone stood and turned toward the back. I did the same, but I was a little late. Beside me, a man passed carrying a big, metal staff that was crossed at the top. Behind him, was Alex dressed in white and holding an old, red book over his head. Behind Alex were two more, a boy and a girl, one with a stick of fire and the other with a metal box that emitted smoke when he swung it. I felt a tickle in my throat as I breathed in the heavy scent. It was strong and suffocating, not like what we used in the Village which was soothing and sweet.

As they passed, everyone turned toward the front again. They were singing, but I couldn't understand what they were saying so I didn't. I watched the man and the two kids place the staff, the fire, and the smoke box in their respective places and then head to their seats not too far from me.

Alex stood behind the big, wood box in the center of everything. He lowered the book onto the stand in front of him and then took a step back, bowing before it. When he looked up, the people had stopped singing.

000

The rest of the ceremony consisted of a reading from the big, red book, chanting, singing, the recitation of things that everyone but me seemed to have memorized, and a speech by Alex. Up there, he was like a completely different person- more confident and charismatic. He exerted an energy and a passion that stirred something in the people he was speaking to, and even though I had absolutely no idea who this Jesus was that he kept talking about, everyone else seemed to. I could tell by the way the whole room seemed to lean in to what he was saying, as if they were dying, and his words were the cure.

I was aware of all of this, but what really caught my attention was the part about life after death. The way Alex spoke, he seemed to really believe there was such a thing, not here though. The place he spoke about was someplace else, some place called Heaven (I think?) where there was no more pain or suffering or sickness, a place where we could be reunited with this Jesus and everyone we loved.

I thought about John Smith and the man whose conversation I'd overheard the night before. I wondered if what Alex was saying was true. I wanted to ask him.

000

After the service, I waited in my seat while Alex said goodbye to everyone. He smiled and shook their hands on the way out the door. Some even stopped to talk to him which he did gladly. I could tell he loved what he did even if I didn't completely understand it. When everyone had finally left, he sat down beside me.

"Not bad for a first Sunday," he said, resting his arm on the back of the bench. "So," he continued. "What did you think?"

"It was good," I said, not wanting to offend him.

"Good," he repeated. He had dark, mud-colored eyes and long eyelashes, all of which regarded me carefully. "You got none of it," he finally said, and I laughed because it was true. Alex smiled.

"It's okay," he said. "I know it was probably weird."

"Weird?"

"Strange," he said. "And different than what you're used to." I nodded, remembering the smoke that smelled like hands around my throat.

"Can I ask you something?" I finally asked. It seemed like the right time.

"Anything," Alex replied.

I couldn't look at him as I tried to verbalize what came next. All of a sudden, my throat started to swell so I swallowed and rearranged my sitting position. When both legs were securely tucked underneath me, I said,

"You said something in your speech about life after death." Alex must have sensed where this was going because he turned toward me and dropped his arm as if to show that he was listening.

My eyes started to water as I realized that I'd never told anyone about John Smith. All the people I'd talked to already knew. Frustrated, I kept my eyes on the floor and wiped the tears away. Two years. This should have been dealt with by now. The fact that it wasn't would continue to haunt me. Kind of like he did.

"It's okay," Alex said, putting his hand on my arm. "Take your time."

"I heard," I said, "I heard you talking to that man last night. The one who lost his wife?" Alex didn't say anything, just kept his hand on my arm and looked at the ground with me. As he did so, I suddenly understood why the man had gone to him in the first place. He really was good at what he did.

"I heard you talking to him," I said, "and I know what he's going through because I lost someone too." I choked on those last couple words and regretted it instantly. I took two deep breaths, trying desperately to diffuse the pressure that was building inside of me.

"You said," I continued, "that people who die go to this place called Haven."

"Heaven," Alex said gently.

"Yes, Heaven. Do you think," I whispered because that was all I could get out. "Do you think he's there too?"

Alex took my hand in his. There was no one in the church, but he lowered his voice so only I could hear.

"What was his name?" he asked.

"John," I replied.

"Did he know Christ?"

"Who?"

"Jesus," Alex said, and then realizing that I still didn't know what he was talking about, he pulled a necklace from around his neck and held it in his hand. It was red and white with a metal thing dangling from the end. It was the same symbol on top of the staff that I'd seen earlier, and on it was a man. He was hanging from it, half naked.

"This man," Alex said. "God, who died to save us from our sins."

"Sins?" I asked. I hated that I had no idea what he was saying.

"The things we've done wrong," Alex explained. He held the necklace out to me, and I took it, not knowing what to say. John and I had never talked about these kind of things. I had no idea what he believed. That bothered me.

"John," Alex said. "That doesn't sound like a Native name."

"It's not," I replied.

"So he was British."

I looked at him. All these new words were giving me a headache. "From London," Alex corrected. My face must have given me away.

"Yes," I said. "He died on the way back there."

I didn't know why I said that. I didn't even know if it was true. He could have died after he got there for all I knew. All I knew for certain was what the settlers had told us. He didn't make it, so how or when he died shouldn't have been important. That didn't stop Alex from asking though.

"Gun shot," I said. "Saving my father." Again, I had no idea why I was telling him this.

"I'm sorry," Alex said. I could tell that he meant it.

We sat in silence for a while, his hand moving back to my arm and me studying the necklace. I reached for the one around my own neck having refused to take it off even though it didn't go with the dress. I ran my thumb over the smooth stone and closed my eyes. When I opened them, Alex was watching me.

"I'm sure he made it," he said. "To Heaven I mean."

"And if he didn't?" I asked. But I was pretty sure I already knew the answer. Pain and suffering had to go somewhere.

Alex regarded me gently as if debating whether or not that was a subject he really wanted to tackle. Thinking better of it, he clapped his hand over mine and said, "You should pray for him."

"Pray?" I asked. "How?"

"Like this," he said. "Just close your eyes and repeat after me."

000  
Alex

It was a simple prayer, one I'd prayed a hundred times with (and for) other people that were going through the same thing. I prayed it for my father when he died and with John Rolfe the night Sarah passed too. Praying with Pocahontas was different though. Something was happening even if I couldn't quite put it into words.

"Thank you," she said when we were finished. She was still holding the pendant in her hand. When she tried to give it back to me, I shook my head.

"You keep it," I said. Something told me she would need it more.

000  
John Rolfe

After the service, I slipped into the back chapel and lingered there until well after everyone else had left. Because the church was still fairly new, there wasn't much back there yet, no kneelers or statues or anything like that, just a cross on the wall and a table with a row of candles spread across it. I used the only lit one to light a candle for Sarah and then put both hands on the table and bowed my head in submission.

"If You can hear me," I said, "this isn't getting any easier."

I sat there in silence for a while, waiting, for what though, I couldn't say. Maybe I was hoping for a whisper or a sign, anything that might suggest that Sarah was alright and that I would be too. Nothing.

I lifted my head and stared at the flame. It flickered across my face, but whatever warmth it had was lost on me. Despite the fact that winter was nearly over, all I felt was ice and snow.

I don't know how long I stood there before I realized this wasn't working. Nothing ever did.

As I left the chapel and started toward the exit, I heard voices coming from the front of the sanctuary. Reverend Alexander was in the first row. Beside him was a woman with long, dark hair and copper colored skin. I looked toward the big, oak door knowing even before I touched it that I wouldn't get through without drawing their attention. I couldn't understand everything that was being said, but the conversation looked intense so I slunk back into the shadows and waited until they were done.

I'd heard the rumors milling around town even before the Reverend had told me he was caring for her. A princess, they called her, the beautiful, Native, peace keeper, though from the back, she looked more English.

I heard about what happened to her village, and my heart went out to her. How terrifying it must have been to be so far away from home, not knowing who had lived and who had died. I watched as Reverend Alexander clasped her hand and bowed his head. He said some things, and she repeated them back. Probably the same prayer he'd prayed with me when Sarah had died.

Even from this far away, I could just make out the tears rolling down her face. A husband, no doubt. There was no way she hadn't had one.

000

When the Reverend had finished, he squeezed the woman's shoulder and stood to his feet.

"I just have to change, and then we can go," he said, starting toward the altar. There was a door behind it that led to his chamber and the place where they stored all the materials for the service. I waited until he disappeared and then made to leave too.

I was right. The door was heavy and made way too much noise when I went to open it. The woman in the front spun around. She stood up and backed toward the altar looking way more afraid than she needed to be.

"It's okay," I said. "I was just leaving."

Still she continued to back up until she hit the step and fell backward with a crash. A candle stick went flying. There was a cloth draped over the edge of the table, and she grabbed it for support only to have everything on top of the cloth come down as well. A tin, a cup, and the Reverend's big, red Bible all crashed to the floor. It was a wonder none of it hit her. Without thinking, I rushed to her side and helped her to her feet.

"Are you alright?" I asked, but she didn't say anything, just continued to stare at me as I picked up the cup, the tin, and the cloth and set them back on the table. We reached for the book at the same time. Just then, the Reverend came out to see what had happened.

"Is everything alright out here? I heard a crash."

That's when he saw me.

"John!" he said. "I didn't realize you were still here." He looked from Pocahontas to me and then back again. "I didn't realize you two had met either."

"We haven't," I said, taking the book and replacing it back on the altar. Her eyes were wide so I stood up a little straighter. "It was my fault," I said. "I scared her."

"I'm sure it was an accident," replied the Reverend. "Pocahontas, this is John Rolfe. He sailed from England with me."

Still the woman didn't look away from me. She had this look on her face like she thought she was seeing a ghost. The Reverend must have known something I didn't because he put his hand on her shoulder and said,

"It's okay, Pocahontas. Where we come from, a lot of people have the same name."

She shook her head and then relaxed a little.

"Nice to meet you, Pocahontas," I said, extending my hand. She looked at it for a second, as if remembering something, then gave me hers as well.

"Nice to meet you too," she said.

000  
Pocahontas

The man with the long, dark hair was familiar to me, though I couldn't say how. He had sad eyes and a heavy demeanor as if he were carrying something weighty and invisible. I knew that weight. I carried it too. Suddenly, I knew. This was the man that Alex had been talking to.

"Why don't you join us for lunch," Alex said. "I was thinking about putting together some sandwiches."

The man with the said eyes smiled.

"Thank you, Reverend, but I have to get back."

"Get back?" said Alex. "To where? Bed?"

"Close," said the man. "I was going to start thinking about planting those tobacco seeds today."

Alex looked surprised but nodded knowingly.

"That's good, John," he said. "I'm happy to hear that." The two men exchanged a look. I pretended not to notice.

"I should be going," the man said, nodding in my direction. "It was good to meet you, Pocahontas. Reverend," he said. "Take care."

"You too, John," said Alex. He turned, and the door slammed firmly behind him as he left.

000  
John Rolfe

That was a lie. I had no intention of planting those seeds. They sat in the bottom of my wardrobe where they'd been from the moment I arrived. As far as the Reverend's invitation, if it had just been him, that would have been one thing. As it were, it wasn't, and I didn't need anybody else feeling sorry for me. Not that I thought the Reverend would say anything. I knew he wouldn't. This was just what I told myself- another lie.

The truth was I wasn't in the mood to socialize. The Reverend thought he'd been joking when he asked if I was going back to bed. Little did he know that that was exactly what I'd had in mind.

When I reached my front door, I opened it, locked it behind me, and then drew all the curtains. (Somehow the dark felt safer than the light.) Then I collapsed onto my bed and slept the rest of the day.

000

The next morning, I woke up restless and with a pounding headache. It was as if I hadn't slept at all.

I tossed and turned for a little bit, flipping the pillow back and forth and trying to will myself back to sleep. You see, I had found the secret to not being in pain, and I was convinced that if I could just stay unconscious, I'd never have to feel that way again. I was wrong. The only way to be perpetually unconscious was to be dead, but again, I might as well have been.

I don't know how long I laid there before I gave up. My body felt heavy and automated as I lifted it out of bed. Slowly, I made my way to the back of the house where I washed up and splashed some cold water on my face. I rubbed it along the back of my neck and closed my eyes, listening to myself breathe. It was enormous effort, but still, I kept living.

When I had finished cleaning up, I put on some fresh clothes and wandered to the kitchen where I thought about eating and then thought better of it. I wasn't hungry anyway.

I don't know what made me do it, but suddenly, I was leaving the house and wandering down the street. It was still too early for there to be a lot of people out. Those that were though smiled and waved as I passed. Some of them I recognized from the voyage over. They were too polite to say anything, but their eyes were sympathetic because they knew. I wondered how many others did too.

When I came upon the church, I stopped. It was silent and looming, and even though it never helped to be there, I went inside.

I don't know what I expected to find in there, but the woman from the day before most definitely wasn't it. She sat in the same place she did yesterday, but this time her hair was up, and she was wearing a blue instead of a pink dress. The door slammed behind me. She didn't look up.

I thought about ducking back into the chapel then partly because I didn't want to disturb her, but also because I still wanted to be alone. Instead, I parked myself in the back pew, leaned forward on my knees, and bowed my head. When I looked up, she was gone.

000  
Pocahontas

I was on my out when I stumbled upon it, a secret room in the back of the building where someone had come to light fires and... pray? There were at least twenty of them lined up on a table and a giant symbol on the wall just like the one on the necklace in my hand. Alex had insisted that I keep it so this morning when I asked if I could go to the church to pray for John Smith, he told me to take it with me. Now, as I approached the table, I held it in my hand. It was then that I heard someone behind me.

I'd seen him in the back row as I'd made to leave so the fact that he was here now didn't scare me. He was just backing out the door when I turned to look at him.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "I didn't realize there was already someone in here." His cheeks were turning red as he took another step back.

"It's alright," I said. "I was just leaving."

"You don't have to," he replied. "You were here first."

I smiled and turned back to the flames.

"I don't really know what I'm doing here anyway," I said. There was a long pause during which I thought he'd turned and left. What he said next surprised me.

"I can show you if you want," he offered.

"Sure," I said, even though that wasn't at all what I'd meant. I wished John and I would have talked about this stuff before he left. It was like this whole other part of him that I realized I didn't know. I wondered what he would think of me here now. Were these prayers even working? I'd never know.

The man who had the same name as John stepped up beside me and used one of the lit flames to light two more.

"Just like this," he said. "One for you and one for me." He replaced the original flame back on the table and took a step back.

"Now what?" I asked.

"Now, we pray." What I said next, I realized too late that it was already out of my mouth.

"Is it bad that I'm getting really tired of hearing that?"

The man laughed.

"You and me both," he said. I smiled and looked away. I didn't want him to know that I knew.

"I should go," I said. "Alex is expecting me."

"Alex?" he said.

"The Reverend," I replied, realizing very quickly that I probably shouldn't have said that either. The man's eyes widened.

"Oh!" he said. "Right. I didn't realize you two were on a first name basis." Then before I could stop myself,

"Aren't you?" I asked. "I thought you were friends."

"We are," he said. "But it seems you two are better."

"Better?"

"Friends," he replied, but I didn't like the way he said that. Although I'd only been speaking English for a couple years, even I could tell when a word that meant one thing was meant to mean something else. My face must have said as much because he turned even redder and said,

"I didn't mean that the way it sounded."

I didn't say anything, just stood there watching his discomfort and wondering how red someone could get before they exploded.

"I'm sorry," he said, looking down at his feet. "I should never have insinuated... That was really rude."

"It also isn't true," I said.

I could've kept him on the hook like that all afternoon, but I decided to change the subject instead. "How did planting go yesterday?" I asked. That was something I knew a bit about. When he looked up, his brow was furrowed.

"Planting?" he asked.

"Yeah. When Al- the Reverend- invited you to lunch, you said that's what you were doing." It took him a second to register what I was saying, but when he did, he smiled sheepishly.

"Oh!" he said. "That! It was good, yeah. No problems at all." He looked from me to the floor and then rubbed the back of his neck as if to convey how hard the work had been. This guy might have been a lot of things, but a good liar wasn't one of them.

"You didn't plant at all yesterday," I said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me," I replied. "You can't plant now anyway. Also, your nails aren't even dirty." He took his hand from behind his neck and looked at it as if to double check what I had so clearly seen. I smiled and shook my head.

"It's alright," I said. "I can help if you'd like."

The man with the tired eyes and John Smith's name looked taken aback.

"Help?" he said.

"Sure. My people have been planting tobacco for centuries," I replied. "I know a few things."

The man studied me as if debating whether or not he'd heard correctly.

"You know how to plant tobacco?" he asked. "And you want to help me."

I nodded, but he still looked confused. Or hesitant.

"Why?"

Because up until then I'd had exactly two places to be: either my bedroom or the church, and both places were beginning to feel like prisons. Also, this whole praying thing wasn't doing anyone any good. I needed to be useful.

The man seemed to understand that last part because he shook his head and said,

"I know what you mean."

I waited for him to say something more, but he didn't. Eventually, it started to feel like time to leave.

"So... tomorrow?" I asked. "Even though all we'll really be able to do is clear some space." I took a step toward the door, and he followed me with his eyes.

"Tomorrow," he said. So it was.


	4. Meanwhile

John Smith  
The Tavern

I wasn't supposed to be here. I knew that even before it had occurred to me to leave.

Even though it had been well over a year since the initial warrant went out and the majority of people still thought I was dead, all it would take was one person, one person to recognize me- my walk or my face- and blow the whole thing. Thinking this, I pulled the hood further over my head and chose a table near the door.

The waitress at the bar eyed me suspiciously. She said something to the bar tender who poured a pint of something gold and gave it to her. I watched as she made her way over to me, her expression none too pleased.

"You shouldn't be here," she whispered as she sat the drink down in front of me. It was frothy at the top and smelled like barley.

"I know," I said, "but I couldn't take the silence anymore."

Isabel frowned. Her long, black hair was pulled back from her face and secured with a scarf which she'd wrapped around her head. Her apron was dirty, and she had a single hoop in her left ear. It swayed disapprovingly as she shook her head.

"Ali will be back tonight," she said. "And I'll be off in a little bit too."

I took a sip of the beer that she brought me. It was cool and refreshing against my throat.

"I'll be fine," I said, placing it back on the table. Still, she continued to look at me, her emerald eyes blaring and then narrowing slightly.

"Fine," she said. "Twenty minutes. That's it."

I don't think either of us were surprised when it was only eight.


	5. Chances

John Smith  
A Year Earlier

When Isabel found me, I was bleeding and unconscious. When I came to, I was in a room and a bed that I didn't recognize.

At first I thought I was still sleeping. The corners of my vision were blurred, and there was an incessant ache in the back of my head. The room moved in sick, slow circles. The smell of alcohol and rotting earth assaulted my senses as a rush of images paraded through my head. They were muffled and unclear as if they'd occurred under water. In the distance, two people were arguing.

"I don't know what you were thinking bringing him here," someone was saying. A man. His accent suggested that he was French.

"You saw those guys who threw him in," he said. "They weren't to be messed with, and two of them had crests which means they worked for the King."

"I don't know what you expected me to do," someone else said. A woman. Also French. "Would you feel better if we'd let him drown?"

As a mercenary fighting in foreign wars, I'd known enough French soldiers to be able to pick out bits and pieces of what they were saying. The language that they were arguing in however wasn't French. It was something else, one I'd never heard before and didn't understand.

"He can't stay here," the man finally said. "He's wanted."

"He's hurt."

"Exactly." He said something else, but it was low and incomprehensible.

"We can't just throw him out," the woman said.

"We can't get caught with him either."

There was silence while she considered this.

"Isabel, please," he said. "They hang people for a lot less in this country." He was right of course, but I was in no position to agree.

"They won't hang us," she said after a while. "Not if we're foreigners who didn't know."

"But we did know."

"They wouldn't know that."

There was some shuffling while they moved around. It sounded like one of them was digging for something.

"But they would send us back to Paris," the man said, "and we can't have that either." More banging, a curse, and then,

"God, I was just starting to like not being hunted anymore."

Another bang.

"What makes you think he's stopped?" the woman shot back. There was venom in her voice as she did so.

"Isabel."

"Ali."

More silence. The man swore.

"This is someone's brother," she said as if that settled it. "If it were you, I'd want someone else to do the same."

With my eyes half closed, I watched as she re-entered the room with a bowl of water and a rag. She set it on a table in the corner and dropped the rag in the bowl before ringing it out. Her brother appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, and said something in the language that I didn't know. Whatever it was made her eyes flash and her head snap. She said something else, low and threatening, but I didn't quite catch it.

From the corner of my eye, I saw her cross the room and sit down beside me. She placed the rag on my forehead. Its coolness startled me which startled her in return.

"Whoa," she said. "It's okay." She made to touch me, but I pushed her arm away. The man in the doorway (who was actually a boy and couldn't have been more than nineteen) grabbed his sister by the arm and pulled her away.

"What did I tell you?" he said.

"Ali, it's fine," she protested. "You would have done the same thing." She shook him off and turned back to me.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have done that."

"Where am I?" I asked. The words came out coarser and more strangled than I intended.

"Safe," she replied.

I tried to sit up, but it was as if a key stomach muscle had been slit, and I fell back against the pillow. Suddenly, my entire abdomen went up in invisible flames. I clenched my teeth to stifle the cry, closing my eyes and inhaling sharply. There was a hand on my forehead, but this time I didn't push it away.

It reminded me of another hand in that exact position not too long ago. Then, as now, it was cool and comforting against the skin that was blistering and aching underneath. Concentrating on the hand distracted me from the pain, and it occurred to me that if I could just keep my eyes closed, I could keep pretending that it was hers.

"You're burning up," Isabel said.

"Makes sense," her brother replied. "That's a nasty wound. And that water was disgusting."

I kept my eyes closed, but I could feel the pull of the bandage as she inspected what was underneath.

"It's infected," she said.

What I couldn't tell her was that it always was.

000

That night my insides seared, and I couldn't sleep. My skin was blazing and brambly to the touch, and no matter how many cloths Isabel put on me, my brain still felt like it was frying inside my head. I was no stranger to injury, and I'd fought infection before, but here's the thing about pain. Even if you know you've felt worse, you can never quite remember when.

What I did remember was look on Radcliffe's face as I caught him by the throat and turned his collar into a noose. On the top floor of my home, it occurred to me that I could have killed him. I could have thrown him down the stairs or choked him with his clothes, but I didn't because I wanted answers more than I wanted him dead. I never got them though.

I felt the knife before I saw it, a sick slice across my abdomen and another hole that had taken way too long to heal. I remembered falling to the floor and a warm, stickiness as I moved to hold myself together. It seeped out of me even as I tried to keep it all in. Radcliffe, for his part, just laughed, a deep, guttural guffaw that echoed in my ears even after the blow to my head. The next thing I knew, I was here.

"We found you in the Thames," Isabel would eventually say. I don't know how long I was there before I was capable of conversing. Her sharp, emerald eyes regarded me carefully as she ran another rag over my forehead. The smell of lilac and chamomile quickly followed which activated something in my stomach and reminded me that I hadn't eaten in days. Isabel must have sensed as much because she called to Ali who was working on something in the corner.

"Can you grab that left over soup in the kitchen?" she asked. Ali hesitated but did as she requested. When he returned, he had a bowl in his hand and a disapproving look on his face. I knew he didn't like me here. Knowing what I was now, I didn't blame him.

Radcliffe would no doubt tell his superiors that I'd resisted arrest which, in turn, would justify his use of force. When I fell (or jumped) into the river, he'd tell them that the current swallowed me up, and there was nothing he could do. Consequently, I was either a fugitive or dead, neither of which were statuses that either Ali or his sister should have had to be associated with. They'd already done enough. When I could get up, I would leave.

Isabel either didn't notice her brother's countenance or pointedly ignored it as she took the bowl from his hand and scooped its contents onto a spoon which he'd also brought.

"It's okay," I said, pushing myself into a sitting position. It stung, but I managed. "I can take it from here."

Isabel hesitated but placed the bowl in my lap and watched as I shoveled the broth into my mouth. I wondered if she thought I was going to miss or if it was going to seep out of my stomach and into the bandages like the rest of me. It didn't. When I was finished, I felt fuller than I had in weeks.

"Thank you," I said as she took the bowl and placed it on the table next to me.

"You're welcome," she replied. "I have your shirt too. I just wanted it to dry before I gave it back to you."

"Any idea how you ended up in the river anyway?"

His tone was more accusing than inquiring, but I pretended not to notice as I turned my attention toward the back of the room. Ali's voice really didn't suit him. It was too deep for someone with such child-like mannerisms and tendencies. Besides a round and hairless face, Ali was tall and lanky. He had jet black hair and guarded, green eyes, and like his sister before him, he also had coffee colored skin and single hoop in his left ear. Gypsies, I was sure, though it would be a while before my suspicions were actually confirmed. He was back in his chair and fiddling with something that I couldn't see. He didn't look at me, but his icy coolness and passive aggression were received anyway.

I didn't have to tell them. I knew this, but I could feel Isabel looking at me, and she looked so much like Pocahontas that I couldn't help but tell them anyway.

"Radcliffe," I finally said.

"What?"

"The guy that stabbed me. He was my superior."

"What'd you do? Rip him off?" The boy with the earring smiled as he said this. Call it my captain intuition, but I had the sneaking suspicion that he'd done his fair share of stealing too. Maybe that was why they were on the run. I didn't say this though.

"Hardly," I said instead. Lying there, I could only recall bits and pieces of what had happened.

I remembered staring at a map of the Atlantic, from England to Virginia, and calculating how long it would take to get back there. I remembered the bag I'd packed and the paperwork I prepared for the Company. In it was a clean bill of health and proof of my recovery. I remembered the crash and the voices and the sound of feet on the stairwell as I threw water over the fire and took cover in the shadows. I remembered the two idiots whose heads I'd bashed in, and Radcliffe, who looked more like a phantom than someone I used to know. His eyes were like big, black beetles inside his face. His hair was grayer, and his face sagged in places that it hadn't before. I watched as his lips turned up at the corners of his mouth revealing a revolting smile and a sneer that I could hear as surely as I could see.

"Well, well, well," he said. "It seems you've healed quite nicely."

My lungs were empty and gasping, but I stood up straighter as he sauntered into the room.

"Radcliffe," I said. "Aren't you supposed to be in jail?"

"Funny you should mention that," he said, taking another step forward. His face flickered in the light from his hand as he surveyed the mess on the floor and the two men strewn across the room. He rolled his eyes and sighed. "I take it they didn't get to that part."

"What part?"

He was looking at me the way a predator looks at its prey: anticipating, starving. What he said next must have been all too satisfying.

"The part where you, Smith, are the one under arrest."

At first I thought he was kidding. Then I realized he wasn't.

"Me?" I said. "For what?"

"Why treason of course." There was a slight laugh in his response as if he'd just told a joke only he could understand.

"I don't get it," I said.

"Think, Smith," said Radcliffe. "Think really hard."

I didn't say anything, just continued to stare at him. His version of reality was puzzling.

"No?" said Radcliffe. "I'll give you a hint." He drew himself up to his full height before lowering himself into my face. What he said next snapped something inside of me. "Savage. Whore."

The next thing I knew, I had him by the collar and was pulling it ever more tightly around his throat.

"She has nothing to do with this," I snarled. Radcliffe closed his hand around my fist to loosen my grip. With his other hand, he set the light on the banister and reached around. I should have paid more attention to that other hand.

"Oh but she has everything to do with it," he whispered. "You thought you could choose them over us and get away with it?"

Our noses were nearly touching then. I tightened my grip as he struggled to loosen it.

"That shot wasn't necessary," I said. "They were backing down."

"No," said Radcliffe. "They weren't. But they will."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, but he'd only slit my side in reply.

"So you didn't take anything from him?" the boy asked.

"Just his freedom I guess."

Eventually, I would tell them the whole story, and they would tell me theirs as well. Ali wanted to know more about the treason accusation, but Isabel shushed him and told me to rest.

"That's enough for tonight," she said. She took the bowl from the table and then crossed the room to take her brother as well. Ali protested but did as she said. When they left, I couldn't sleep.

As I laid there, I thought a lot about Radcliffe and how his ability to evade prison shouldn't have been all that surprising. Surely, he'd spent enough time in the Courts and in the System to know his way around (or under) certain things. He was not likable by any means (an opportunist at best and a suck-up at worst), but he was manipulative and cunning and damn if the man couldn't turn a phrase (or in this case, an entire sentence.) How exactly he'd done it, I had no idea, and that bothered me because I'd so stupidly waited for him to brag.

How did someone so guilty go free anyway, and more importantly, why was I the one he wanted out of the way? I wasn't the one who had tied him, gagged him, threw him in the basement of a ship, and then said he'd committed treason. I was too busy trying not to die, and yet, we all know what it's like to need someone else to blame. Most people grow out of this. Radcliffe did not.

In his version of events, I probably jumped in front of the Chief and stopped the English from moving forward. I defied his orders. I put us all in that position in the first place. I, I, I.

The list of my actual transgressions was probably much longer than the one I could come up with myself which, in turn, made me the most logical scapegoat. I resented that. Radcliffe knew this, and I resented that also. Thanks to him, I was bed ridden for the second time in less than a year. I was also a sitting target, and that made Isabel and Ali targets as well. Thinking this, now seemed like a good time as ever to leave.

Carefully, I pushed myself into a sitting position and swung my legs over the side of the bed. A sharp pain erupted in my stomach, but I ignored it and hauled myself upward. There was a small window above the bed, but I knew I wouldn't get out of it without ripping myself open again. No. I would go out the door instead.

Down the hall, Isabel and Ali were talking in the other bedroom.

"Why did you stop me?" Ali was asking. "Don't you want to know who this guy is?"

"He's a fugitive, Ali. Just like us."

"He did something though. We just existed."

"You don't know that for sure."

"I would have if you'd let me ask the questions."

"Enough," she said. "Whatever questions you have can be answered when he's well."

"Why?" Ali asked. "Why are you so invested in this răspundere anyway?"

I ducked back into the shadows and waited while she answered. It was a good question and one that I would've liked to know the answer to as well.

"I should ask you the same thing," she finally said.

"That's not an answer," Ali replied. "If it were up to me, we would have kept walking. You're the one that pulled him out of the water and insisted on bringing him home."

"I'm not having this argument again."

"I'm not arguing, Isabel. I just want to know why." More silence. Someone sighed.

"You know why," she said, so softly that I almost didn't hear.

"Maybe," Ali said. "But I still want you to say it." She didn't. The light went out, and I stood there, longer than I should have, wondering at her reasons too. Even when I was half unconscious, I could see a ghostly sadness in her eyes, one that floated and flickered as she tended to me, as if it reminded her of something. It reminded me of Pocahontas, the other (and perhaps more important) reason that I was leaving. Thinking this, I tiptoed past the bedroom to the living room where the remnants of a fire were still fizzling in the grate. I found my shirt draped over one of the chairs and slid it over my head. The effort it took to get my arms through was immense, but I did it and then started toward the door. On my way, I noticed a long, black cloak on one of the chairs. It was heavy in my hand when I picked it up, and at the base of the collar was a gold medallion.

"That was Jeon's," someone said. When I spun around, Isabel was behind me.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I was just..."

"Leaving?" she asked. The light from the embers danced circles in her eyes, but there was no trace of surprise. I felt suddenly guilty although I couldn't explain why.

"I'm not here to stop you," she said. "You can even take that if you want." She gestured toward the cloak which I realized I was still holding. I put it down and looked at her earnestly.

"It's not that I don't appreciate everything you've done," I said. "It's just that your brother is right. I can't stay here."

"Maybe," she said. "But he's not the real reason you're sneaking out in the middle of the night." She put her hands on the back of one of the chairs and studied me with cat-like superiority. I didn't know how to tell her she was right.

"I'm sorry," I said again.

"Don't be," she said. "It's quite alright."

"Who is Jeon?" I asked after a while.

"Was," she replied.

"What happened to him?" I pressed, but she didn't answer, just took the cloak off the chair and pressed it back into my hands.

"You should go," she whispered. "The sun will be up soon."

"But... Isabel."

"Go," she said again. So I left.

Outside, the air was damp and chilly. I pulled the cloak over my shoulders and the hood over my head. Then, with one hand still holding my stomach, I took off into the woods.

000  
Isabel

When the door closed behind him, I went to the window to watch him leave. I don't know why it concerned me so much. I didn't even know his name. Still, I watched and waited until the hooded figure had disappeared behind the trees. Ali would be happy. That much was certain, but I still couldn't help wondering after him. Where would he go, and what would become of him? I thought about that all night, and when the sun came up the next morning, I thought about it then too.

"Where's our friend?" Ali asked.

"He left," I said. I tore a piece of bread and gave it to him.

"Really?" he said, and then surprisingly, "That's too bad." I looked at him from across the table.

"Too bad?"

Ali shrugged in response.

"He wasn't a bad guy." No, I thought to myself. He wasn't.

That afternoon, Ali took our horse to go look for a job. If this were home, we'd have made our money on the street. As it were, it was not, and we were more determined than ever not to draw attention to ourselves. When Ali returned, he had someone with him.

"Look who I found," he said, undoing Phoebus's saddle and putting him away. Beside him, a man in a black cape removed his hood.

"I don't believe you've been properly introduced," Ali said. "Isabel, this is John."

000

"Hi," he said, extending his hand. I didn't take it, just stared at him disbelievingly and then turned to my brother.

"I don't understand," I said.

"John here found me a job," Ali said.

"I don't- you- what?" This was almost too much to process, and I was having a hard time catching up. "Wait. Start over," I said. "What happened now?"

"I noticed he was having some trouble so I suggested a fishing company down by the wharf."

"That doesn't explain how you found each other."

"It's not that big of a town, Isabel," Ali said, smiling to himself. "We were both just wandering." He set the saddle on the ground and drew Phoebus a bucket of water from our well. "There is something else though," he said as he set the bucket in front of the horse. Phoebus stuck his whole face in it, noisily.

"What is it?" I asked, eyeing John for the first time since he'd returned. Under the cape, he was still holding his stomach like he was afraid it was going to fall out. His hair was blown back, and his eyes were heavy, and for the first time in a long time, it occurred to me to be afraid.

"There's a rumor going around that John is dead," Ali finally said. "We have to keep it that way."

"Dead," I repeated. The man in Jeon's cape shrugged.

"There are worse things."

Indeed. I knew it; Ali knew it, and Jeon had known it too. I tried not to see him looking at me from across the yard, but it was no use. I looked away. His ghost did too.

000  
Isabel  
Present Day

He was a grown man, but I had worked way too hard to keep him safe. We both had, so when a hooded figure with broad shoulders and defiant eyes slid into the table by the door, I wanted to kill him.

All it would take was one person, just one, to recognize him, follow him back to our safe house, and summon the King's guard. He'd go to prison, and we'd go back to Paris, (if we weren't hanged instead) and for what? A night on the town? This is what I told myself (and him every time we argued about it), but I'd be lying if I said there wasn't more to it than that. There always was.

The first and only time Ali brought it up, I swore at him which was something I never did. Of the two of us, Ali had more of a mouth, but as a rule, we never spoke to each other like that. As it were, my reaction only proved his point.

A year later, I was still grieving the death of my own ocean eyed captain. The fact that he was a captain wasn't the reason I'd saved him. (I wouldn't find that out until much later.) But when I saw him sinking in the river, I was reminded of a similar scene from weeks before. It was happening all over again, but unlike the last time, I wasn't tied up on top of a bridge. There were no soldiers holding me back, no arrows being shot. But there was me, and there was him, and if I couldn't save Jeon, at least I could save this. So I did, and I kept saving him even after we'd discovered the stab wound.

It wasn't that I thought John was Jeon. I could never love anyone the way I'd loved him. Ali knew this, but that didn't stop him from shooting his mouth off. He was scared. We both were, and even though we both knew enough English to get by, neither of us knew enough about navigating an entirely different country. Add in the task of caring for a wounded, wanted man, and things were suddenly even more complicated than they had been. Now instead of two people to worry about, we had three which would have been fine if the third one didn't take so many chances.

I grabbed a drink from the bar tender and took it over to the table where he sat.

"You shouldn't be here," I whispered, setting it down in front of him. Beneath the hood, his sea colored eyes looked at me apologetically.

"I know," he said, "but I couldn't take the silence." I put my hand on my hip and reprimanded him with my eyes.

"Ali will be back tonight," I said. "And I'm off in a little bit too."

He'd been gone for a few weeks now, on a fishing trip, and would soon be making his way back.

"The thing about fishermen is that they don't ask questions," John had said. He was right. No one seemed to care where Ali had come from or how he'd gotten there. He had an accent so they made fun of him for that, but they didn't seem to care that he was a Gypsy either- most of the time anyway. Soon, he'd be home.

John took a sip of the beer I brought him.

"I'll be fine," he said, placing it back on the table. I didn't take my eyes off him.

"Fine," I said after a while. Short of having him thrown out, there wasn't much I could do anyway. "Twenty minutes," I said. "That's it."

John smiled as he closed his hands around the mug. They were big and capable. Like Jeon's. I shook my head as I turned away. Someday I would stop letting him sneak up on me.

000  
John

I heard him before I saw him. His words were slurred and guttural, but I would have known that voice anywhere.

"A ship," he was saying. "From the King himself."

I pulled my hood further over my head and leaned over the drink in front of me. He was loud so I could hear everything that was said. Across the room, I watched him steady himself on a table in front of him. It appeared he'd been celebrating a bit too hard. I guess I would have too.

"So where are we headed?" someone else asked.

"Jamestown," Radcliffe said. "With an army. And guns."

I didn't need to hear anymore. I threw my chair back and some cash on the table. The chair scraped the floor, and the coins clanked louder than I intended them to, but I was up, and I was out before anyone could say a word.

000  
Isabel

"What got into him?" someone asked. But I was pretty sure I knew. I glanced at the loud, barrel chested man in the corner who was going on and on about his ship and his plans and the extermination of a people that could very well have been my own.

"I'll be right back," I said to the bar tender. Then I swung off my apron and went after him.

When I found John, he was untying our horse.

"That was him, wasn't it?" I asked. "The guy that stabbed you?"

John didn't answer. I watched as he threw the saddle over Phoebus's back and made to tighten the straps under his belly. Phoebus wasn't used to being handled like that though. As John went to tighten the girth, he took a few steps forward and snorted sharply.

"Dammit," John said as the straps were ripped from his hands.

"Here," I said, maneuvering between them. I placed my hand on Phoebus's neck and soothed him until he was calm enough to try again. Behind me, John let out an exasperated sigh. As quickly as I could, I finished saddling him and then turned back to John.

"I know you saw him," I whispered. "What took you so long to leave?"

"I needed answers," he said, taking the reins from me. I watched as he climbed onto Phoebus's back and held out a hand to me.

"Answers," I replied, glancing at the tavern behind me. There were three men outside. They were smoking foreign cigars and regarding us curiously. John must have noticed them too because he reached out his hand even further and mouthed, "Not here."

"C'mon," he whispered. "I'll explain everything."

I looked at the tavern and then back at John debating whether or not I should decline and go back inside or at least tell someone I was leaving.

"Isabel," John said. There was an urgency in his voice, almost like a plea. Suddenly, the door behind me crashed open and someone stumbled outside. Startled, I grabbed John's hand and let him pull me up. I didn't look back as we took off down the street.

000

The ride back to the house was cold and silent save for the clacking of Phoebus's feet. With every jump and jostle, my sense of foreboding increased. Working at the Tavern, I'd heard bits and pieces about this country's exploits in the New World. Up until now, it had been just that- bits and pieces about a settlement and land and the Natives that were trying to hold onto it. For John though, it was personal. I could feel it as I clung to him from behind.

When we got home, he helped me down, put Phoebus away, and ushered me inside. Only when the door was secured behind us did he tell me what I'd suspected all along.

"I have to go back to Jamestown," he said. "Radcliffe is on his way with an army, and I have to get ahead of him."

"I don't understand," I said. "How is getting ahead of him going to solve anything? And what do his plans have to do with you?"

John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. His brow pulled together, and he frowned at the floor. He looked older than he had an hour ago.

"I met someone while I was over there," he said, "a woman who I loved very much. She's in danger," he said. "I have to warn her."

Suddenly, things were making a bit more sense. I remembered the people that the man at the bar had been boasting about exterminating. She must have been one of them.

"Suppose you do get to her," I said, lowering myself onto one of the chairs. "Then what?"

"I'll get her as far away from Jamestown as I can."

"She'll want to take her people with her," I said.

"Then we'll move them too."

"You say we like I have something to do with this too."

John looked at me then. I knew exactly what he was asking.

"No. No way," I said. "If you want to find your own way out of this country, be my guest, but don't you dare ask me to come with you."

"Why not?" he asked. "What do you have here that you couldn't have over there?"

"Gee, I don't know, John. Safety? A home?" How that was even a question, I had no idea.

"You could have both those things in the New World too," he said. Here, there's always the possibility that you could be found and sent back to Paris. There, they wouldn't do that."

"And what do you expect me to do with Phoebus and Ali?"

"They can come too."

"How would we get there? You're supposed to be dead, and none of us have a ship or papers for traveling."

"That didn't stop you before."

I pretended I didn't hear him. John smiled slightly and ran another hand through his hair before letting it rest on his neck. He looked up at me through his eyelashes and waited for me to get it. It didn't take long.

"Ali," I said.

"He does work in a ship yard," John said.

"And you want to steal his employer's boat."

"Well, borrow," he said. I stared at him, incredulous. There was no way. My face must have said what I was thinking because he took a step toward me and reached for my hand. Jeon used to do that too. I should have pulled away.

"Isabel, please," he said. "I can't do this without you. Please," he said. "Help me one last time."

Before I could answer, there was a pounding against the door. I jumped, and John let go of my hand.

"Go to the bedroom and close the door," he said. "I'll deal with this."

Usually, I'd argue, but this time I did what I was told. There was a loud commotion on the other side of the door. I looked around for anything I could use as a weapon.

"Isabel!" I heard John yell. "Quick! I need your help!"

When I returned to the living room, he was holding an injured Ali in his arms.

000  
John

I had never seen Isabel move so fast.

"Put him in the bedroom!" she said as she dashed toward the kitchen. Behind me, I heard drawers opening, contents shifting, and cupboards slamming furiously, one after another.

Both of Ali's eyes were purple, and there was blood pooling from his mouth. He coughed and spat it out, all the while holding his ribs like he was trying to hold them together. Broken, I thought, as I put one arm over my shoulder and helped him to the bedroom. Once there, I lowered him onto the bed like he must have done for me nearly a year earlier.

Isabel appeared in the doorway carrying an assortment of bandages, a cup, and some viles. There was a wet rag strewn over her shoulder which she gestured towards as she set all her tools on the night stand.

"Take the rag on my shoulder, and place it over his eyes," she said. "It'll help with the swelling."

I did as she told me while she hustled back to the kitchen. When she came back, she was carrying a bowl of hot water which she set on the night stand as well.

I looked at Isabel and then at Ali who was moaning under her hand.

"I'm going to go make sure he wasn't followed," I said. "Do you need anything else?"

She didn't answer for a long while, just continued to stroke Ali's face and mix the viles.

"A time machine?" she finally asked. Didn't we all.

000

The yard was clear and so was the perimeter of the property. Whatever happened to Ali did not happen here.

Eventually, we would learn that it was a robbery carried out by some colleagues of his. For whatever reason, the captain of the fishing company seemed to favor Ali more than the other men. They'd all gotten paid (Ali maybe more than others), and so they'd decided to jump him on his way home. I didn't tell either of them this, but I sensed that it had something to do with race too. Although we would at least employ them on this side of the Channel and there were no organized "Gypsy hunts" so to speak, there was still an order to things. Even here. Even in fishing boats.

Out of respect for what Isabel and Ali were going through, I didn't bring up Jamestown for the next three days. Before the end of the third though, I was getting anxious. While Isabel was taking care of Ali, I wandered down to the Docks and into the taverns where I listened for any news about the situation in Virginia or Radcliffe's impending armada.

No one seemed to know a lot except that trading had ceased, resources were scarce, and the new captain over there had petitioned the Crown for reinforcements. On the fourth day after Ali's arrival, I finally said something to Isabel.

"I know that Ali is in no shape to travel, but I can't wait any longer."

She looked at me from the sink where she was doing dishes. She wiped her hands on a towel and turned to face me.

"I understand," she said. "But who will you get to help you?"

"Help you what?"

Ali stood in the doorway holding the place where Isabel had wrapped his ribs and wincing slightly.

"Ali," she said. I pulled a chair from the kitchen table and offered it to him. He didn't even look at it.

"You shouldn't be up," Isabel said.

He ignored her.

"What is it you need help with?" he asked again. The swelling had gone down around his eyes so I could see them again. Two emerald orbs studied me intently.

"I'm going back to Jamestown," I said.

"What? Why?"

"The man that stabbed him is leading an army."

"So you're going to join him?" Ali asked looking from me to Isabel and then back again. "Kind of suicide, isn't it?"

"Not exactly," I said. "I need to leave ahead of him."

"I don't understand."

"Remember that story he told us about the first time he was over there?" Isabel asked.

Ali nodded, not taking his eyes off me.

"There was a woman," she said. "This man is going after her people, and if John doesn't get to her first, she'll die."

Ali seemed to understand this. They both did. It was then that he lowered himself into the chair I'd pulled out, all the while not taking his arm from around his ribs.

"So when do we leave?"

"Ali," Isabel said. "You can barely even walk. How are you supposed to help steal a ship?"

"Steal?" Ali asked. "You mean borrow."

I smiled at that. Isabel didn't.

"It's okay," Ali said. "I know a guy."

000

The guy that Ali knew turned out to be someone that I knew too- albeit years ago. Not much had changed since the last time I saw him. He was bigger in the shoulders, and his hair was longer, but his eyes were the same. When I took off my hood, they were big and wide.

"John!" Thomas said as he closed the door behind us. "I don't believe this. You were- They said- You were-"

"Dead?"

"That!" replied Thomas as he pulled me into a hug. I clapped him on the back.

"Misinformation."

"Apparently," said Thomas, letting go of me. "We all kind of lost track of each other after we got back. I'm glad it wasn't true."

I nodded, gesturing to the house we'd walked into. It was modestly furnished with wooden furniture that Thomas had no doubt made himself. The drapes were pulled shut, and there was a fire roaring in the corner.

"Is this all yours now?" I asked.

"When I'm not fishing, yes."

I looked at Ali who was busy studying the picture on the wall: a man, a woman, and their two red headed children.

"My family," Thomas said when he noticed Ali looking at it. "I got it from my parents' house when they died."

Fishing. That's how they knew each other.

"I'm sorry," Ali said, tearing his eyes away from the painting. "I didn't mean to stare... or bother you this late at night. It's just that you said I could come to you if I needed anything and well..." Ali looked at me and then back at Thomas. "We need your help."

"Anything," Thomas said. It was then that he noticed Ali holding his ribs. "Is something wrong?" he asked. "Are you hurt?"

"Admittedly," Ali replied. "But that's not why I've come."

Thomas's brow furrowed in concern.

"You should sit," he said, waving us into the living room. "Let me make you all some tea."

"I'm sorry, Sir, but there isn't enough time."

"Sir?" I thought they'd worked together, but now it seemed it was more than that.

"Wait," I said. "Are you-"

"The owner of the fishing company?" Isabel asked. That was the first time she'd spoken since we'd gotten there. I'd almost forgotten that she was there at all. She and I exchanged a look. Thomas smiled and looked at his feet.

"Admittedly," he replied. "But only since my father died."

"How long has that been?" I asked. Thomas sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

"About two years now? When we got back from Jamestown, he was really sick. My sister and I took care of him as best we could, but after my mom passed, he didn't make it much longer."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Isabel said. Thomas looked at her and nodded.

"Thank you," he said. "But you still haven't told me why you've come."

I was about to answer, but Ali beat me to it.

"We need a ship," he said.

"A ship? For what?"

"Radcliffe is headed back to Jamestown," I explained. "With an army."

Thomas didn't look as shocked as I thought he would. In fact, he didn't even blink.

"Now that you mention it," he said. "I'm pretty sure I heard that."

"You knew?"

"There've been whispers about it at the Docks. Some men that work for me were talking about it. I'm sorry, John," he said. "I really thought he'd stay in jail."

"Wishful thinking I guess."

Thomas nodded and looked at his feet again.

"I heard something else too," he said after a while. I knew what was coming so I waited for it. "There was a warrant shortly before you were declared dead. Was that- Was that him too?"

"The warrant and my supposed death. I'll tell you the whole thing on the way to Jamestown, but we need to leave now."

"Now?" Thomas asked. I tried to contain my impatience as I looked at him, but it was difficult. All I could think about was Pocahontas and what would happen if I didn't get to her first.

"Thomas," I said. "Please." Something must have clicked for him because his eyes got big and his mouth fell open a little. When he had recovered he said,

"I'm sorry. I knew that."

"Knew what?" Ali asked.

"The reason he's in such a hurry," Thomas replied. "Don't worry, John. We'll find her before he does."


	6. From Across the Channel

Valentin

It was dumb luck that I found them when I did. It had been nearly a month since I'd left France, and everyone that I'd talked to had tried to talk me out of it. Even my superiors (who wanted an end to the Gypsy crisis as much as I did) advised me to cease trying to locate them. After over a year of scouring the countryside, I was at last informed by the Parisian authorities that they would no longer be providing either their resources or their concern.

"It's over," Judge Francis said. I stared blankly at him from across the table. The light from the torches flickered throughout the room and across his face as if nodding in uninformed agreement. There were half-mooned shadows under the Judge's eyes, and his once full head of hair was growing thin and grayer around the edges. Whatever time he had left in this position was little, and yet, his investment in the case would either kill or carry it into the next administration. Seeing my displeasure, Judge Francis leaned back in his chair and sighed.

"Why are you so fixated on this anyway?" he asked.

I didn't answer, just kind of found a spot on the floor and stared at it in silence. In my head I could articulate over a hundred reasons why Isabel and her brother should be brought to justice. Out loud, I didn't know how to say them without sounding unhinged. Francis must have noticed my inner struggle because he offered a simpler question.

"What did they even do?" he asked. "It's been so long, I don't even know if anyone remembers."

"I remember," I said, clenching the arms of my chair with both fists. I remembered

the way she twisted and twirled in the streets. Her long, dark legs darted in and out of her skirts like lightning, the same lightning that sliced through me.

It wasn't my fault. I didn't go looking for that kind of temptation. It was she that ignited the fire in me, she that assaulted all of my moral defenses with an array of impure thoughts. Up until then, I never understood what my brother had found so compelling about his own Gypsy witch, the one who had cost him everything (including his life) and in doing so had bewitched his mind, manipulated his most masculine tendencies, and convinced him to leave the only family he'd ever known. She made him chase her and her band of misfits only God knew where, only to get him murdered in the end.

We never did find out who or why, just that he was found abandoned in a marsh outside the city with nothing and no one in sight. That was ten years ago, though the pain would suggest otherwise. I never did forgive the Gypsies for what happened to my brother, and as time went on and their presence in Paris grew, so did the amount of crime. The people of Paris needed protection, and I'd been determined to provide it ever since. So when another traveling circus rolled through the city gates, I mobilized our guards as quickly as I could. How could I have foreseen that my captain would also become their victim? Even now, my blood smoldered at the thought of his blatant insubordination.

Francis was still watching me. I wondered if he could feel the temperature rising in the room or if it was just me and the wave of my own fury.

"They killed Captain Jeon," I spat. This was not entirely untrue. Had it not been for the girl and her brother, the captain would most certainly still be alive. Judge Francis moved forward and massaged his face with both hands.

"That was a regrettable loss," he sighed, then dropped his fists back to the table. "Very well, Valentin," he said. "I am withdrawing the search efforts here, but if it is your personal mission to find Isabel and her brother, there's not much I can do about that."

"And if I do?" I asked. "Find them I mean?" My pulse quickened in anticipation of what he might say.

"You'd have to get them back to Paris," he replied.

"And then?"

"Then I'm pretty sure you know."

A small smile spread across my face along with a warm sensation in my body. It wasn't an angry heat though, more like a satisfying one, and not unlike the feeling I was experiencing now. After all of this time in all of these places, I finally found what I'd been looking for.

Inside their voices were muffled, but I heard enough to know that if I was going to bring Isabel and Ali back to Paris, it would have to be tonight. Using the shadows for cover, I pressed my back to the side of the house and peered around the corner. The horse by the door snorted and stomped its feet. I recognized it instantly. How could I not? It had once belonged to me. I thought about approaching it then. Surely it would remember me too. Just as I was about to, the door opened, forcing me to duck back into the dark.

"I'll be right outside!" someone called. His long, black cloak billowed behind him as he strode toward the road. When he turned, I caught a flash of golden hair and the glint of a small, round medallion. No. Not possible. Jeon was dead.

Carefully, so as not to be detected, I slunk further into the shadows and slithered around to the far corner of the yard. The man that appeared to be Jeon looked over his shoulder and let out a puff of breath.

"Any day now, Phoebus," he said, starting toward the horse. But it wasn't French that I heard; it was English and with no traces of a Parisian accent. This wasn't Jeon. It was someone else. I watched as he extended an arm toward the animal and ran a hand down its back. The horse whinnied in response. When the door creaked a second time, it was Isabel that appeared at his side. My breath caught at the sight of her. No matter how much time had passed, she was still as radiant as ever. What a waste this would be, and yet, it had to be done.

"They're almost ready," she said to the man in Jeon's cloak. He didn't say anything, just continued petting the horse.

"John?" she said. "Is everything alright?"

Whatever he said next was too low for me to hear. Whatever it was also made Isabel stand up straighter. Her head snapped as if she'd heard something, and when she turned, I could see that she was scanning the perimeter of the property. I lowered myself even further to the ground. The man said something else, but she shook her head in protest.

"You can't wait that long," Isabel said. To herself it sounded like, "And neither can we."

"I can wait one more night if it means keeping you safe," the man replied.

"No," Isabel said. "I'm not going to live like this any more." With that, she started toward me. "I know you're out there!" she screamed. There was more, but it was in the harsh, Gypsy language I didn't understand.

"Isabel, stop!" He moved to grab her, but she was too quick. She barreled toward me like an enraged wind.

"Isabel!" he said again. When she slowed, he caught her by the arm. "You did it," he whispered. "You scared him away."

"I didn't want to scare him; I wanted to finish this!" I watched as she shook him off and he dropped his hands to his sides as if relinquishing something so precious was always that easy. I thought about my own hand around her wrist and then both of them around her neck. End it we will, I thought, but not when she was expecting it.

The door opened a third time, and two more men rushed to the edge of the yard. One of them was hobbling. The other looked like he was trying to keep the hobbler from falling on his face.

"What happened?" the one with the ember hair said. "We heard screaming."

"Isabel," her brother said. "What did you see?"

All three men were looking at her with concern, but she didn't seem to see any of them. Her eyes were fixed right on the spot where I was hiding, and for a moment I thought she was watching me too. Her eyes flickered in the light from the moon.

"Nothing," she said after a while. With what seemed like great effort, she tore them away from the shadows and turned back to her friends. "I see nothing," she said. "Let's just go."

"This can still wait until tomorrow," the man with the golden hair said.

"Tomorrow?" the one who was not Isabel's brother replied. "I thought you wanted to leave tonight."

"Radcliffe is still here. He's not due to leave for another couple days."

"And you know this how?" Isabel asked. The man in Jeon's cloak shrugged. "I've been listening."

"Listening," she repeated.

"Yes," the man said, but he didn't add any more. Instead, he looked at his red headed companion who motioned toward the house.

"It is getting pretty late," he said. "C'mon. I have room upstairs." Isabel hesitated but eventually followed suit.

I waited while they made their way across the yard and didn't move until I heard the door click behind them. This was not at all what I had anticipated when I left France, and now I had two more people to deal with. In the distance, I heard the horse snort again. Suddenly, I had an idea: If the French authorities wouldn't be of any assistance to me, maybe the English ones would.


	7. Acting in the Dark

Isabel

No one said anything as we stepped inside, not even after the door was securely locked behind us. John swung off his cloak. Ali collapsed into a chair, and all the while the man they called Thomas absorbed himself with the fireplace. No one seemed even remotely concerned about the madman lurking outside which seemed strange considering that Ali and I had only been running from him for the last year of our lives. Even Ali, who knew Valentin personally, didn't seem the least bit alarmed. John must have seen all of this bubbling up inside of me because just as I was about to point it all out, he pulled me into an embrace and whispered,

"Don't say anything."

"You think he's listening?" I whispered back.

"Possibly," he said. "So just act like we're all going to bed."

I let out the long and seething breath that I'd been holding since we got back inside the house. At this point in our friendship, I really should have given John a little more credit. The man wasn't stupid, no matter how it had appeared a few moments before. Quite the opposite. He was a brilliant actor, a skill he must have had no choice but to acquire and perfect over a lifetime of circling the world. I realized now that it had probably saved his life more times than he'd care to tell. I relaxed then, comforted by the thought that it might just save ours too.

I looked around to Thomas and Ali who had turned toward us too. I could tell by the silent nod in their eyes that they already knew what was expected of them. The question was, did I? As if to prove it, I wrapped my arms around John's waist and turned so that my cheek was against his chest. I looked at the floor the whole time and tried not to think too hard about the smell of soap and evening air on his skin, or the kick drum of his heartbeat under my ear.

This was not Jeon.

My head knew that, but the actress in me still wanted to pretend. Acting. That's all this was. Remembering this, I extracted myself from John's arms and strode toward the candle on the other side of the room. It was flickering on a mantle below the portrait of Thomas and his family. I could feel them watching me as I made to blow it out.

You know nothing, I thought, putting out any more talk of the subject (internal or otherwise.)

000  
John

Isabel turned out to be a very good actress. Once she knew what we were all playing at, I had no doubt that she would fall into step. What I didn't expect were her arms around my waist as she did so. At first I was a little taken back, but I recovered my face and stood still, hoping that if there was someone watching (which I suspected there still was) that my response appeared natural, like this was exactly what I'd intended all along. In reality, I was just trying to get close enough to tell her what was really going on.

I watched her blow out a candle and start toward the stairs. Ali pushed himself up to follow her, and as she helped him up to the spare bedroom (which Thomas said was on the right), I made to extinguish the rest of the candles and help him put out the fire. We worked in silence until Isabel and Ali had disappeared and we could hear the creaking of floor boards above.

"So what's the plan?" Thomas asked.

"Run," I replied. Thomas nodded as if he'd figured as much.

"I reckon we split up," he said. "I'll take Ali and the horse and get them both down to the Docks. Then you and Isabel can join us after."

He looked away as he said her name, as if there was something in his eyes that he didn't want me to see. Unfortunately for him, I already knew. I'd seen the way he looked at her as she started toward the bedroom and the not-so-discreet way he'd preoccupied himself with the fire.

"She's a great actress," I whispered, "but I don't think of her like that." Thomas didn't look at me as I said this, though I could see the faintness of a smile turning up at the corners of his mouth.

"Am I that obvious?" he asked.

"Only to me," I said. "It's good to see you again," I added. "I don't think I could do this without you." Thomas clapped my back in reply but didn't say anything more as the last of the embers smoldered in the grate.

The movement upstairs seemed to have ceased. As Thomas ascended the stairs, I went to the couch and lowered myself onto it. It was solid underneath me, and the fabric that covered it was as smooth as a woman in my hands.

Pocahontas.

The thought of her made my chest tighten. I remembered the feel of Isabel's grip around my waist and the weight of her head only a few minutes before. I conjured the sensations in my mind and muscle memory, pinning them down for as long as they would stay. It wasn't Isabel that I was holding though. It was her, and it had been way too long.

I don't know how much time had passed before I opened my eyes. When I did, I saw the moon peek through the window and immediately started calculating how far we were from where we needed to be. Whoever this stranger was, I doubted very much that he knew more than just the main roads of the city. In my head, I drew up every alley and side street that I could remember from here to the port. When at last I was satisfied with our route, I got to my feet and went to get everyone else.


	8. Seeds

Pocahontas

The man with John Smith's name knew nothing about tobacco seeds. At the first sign of spring, he wanted to put them directly in the ground.

"There's still time for it to frost again," I said, to which he'd replied,

"Oh, I suppose there is." And on and on it went like that for the next few days, him making uninformed mistakes and me correcting them. One particularly warm day when we were taking a break from all of our hard work, he leaned against the little fence that we'd built in the back of his property and asked,

"So how did your people learn to do all this?" The sun was high in the afternoon sky, and there was a stream of sweat running down the side of his face. He'd rolled his shirt sleeves up to his elbows, revealing two long forearms gone red and blotchy from exposure to the sun. A string of copper colored hair escaped the ribbon that was holding it in place. It dangled in his face, but he brushed it away, surveying the fruit of our efforts.

The land was tilled and blocked off without a wildflower or weed in sight. A sudden peace came over me as I breathed in the smell of the Earth and listened to its quiet humming, a peace that I hadn't felt since before my arrival here and that I hadn't expected to feel ever again. It could really only be one thing, the same thing that had instructed my ancestors in the way of the land all those years ago and to this day.

"The Great Spirit," I said automatically. It was as much in response to him as to myself.

"The what?" His eyebrows raised, and there was a slight, if confused smile turning up at the corners of his face. Maybe it was the way he was looking at me, some uneven combination of amused and intrigued. I could feel the blood pooling in my cheeks and a sudden heat bubbling up underneath. It flowed out and across my face which only made me want to change the subject even more.

"Practice," I corrected. The man with John Smith's name had a disarming disposition and an ease that was both soothing and unnerving at exactly the same time. It was the kind of demeanor that could make you forget who you were talking to and how little you had in common. It was convincingly safe, invitingly friendly, and uncanny in its ability to soften even my strongest defenses. It was also gray in color and weighted by distress, as if he could collapse from it at any moment. Maybe that's why I was able to speak so freely with him- because I knew that if I had to run I could, and that if I did, the weight of what he carried would make it impossible for him to keep up.

"Practice," he repeated. Folding his arms across his chest, he didn't take his eyes off me as he leaned further against the fence. I could feel the color creeping up my neck as I looked around for something else to do. One of the shovels was still laying on the ground so I picked it up and brought it back toward the house.

"It's okay to talk about it, you know!" I was leaning the shovel against the wall as he said this.

"Talk about what?" I could hear him moving away from the fence then, but I didn't turn around. There was rustling behind me as he moved into the edge of my vision.

"All of it," he said. "Home, your family, religion..." He wasn't teasing anymore, the jesting smile having been replaced by a genuine countenance. I didn't say anything so he went on, his face flushing pink as he rubbed the back of his neck.

"I'm sorry that I offended you," he said, "...again." Still, I pressed him with my silence. I didn't really need to, and it wasn't really necessary, but damn if his discomfort wasn't also kind of satisfying. "Truly," he said. "Sometimes my mouth moves faster than my mind."

"Sometimes?"

"Often," he replied. "It's a habit that I would very much like to break."

000  
John Rolfe

I was relieved when she smiled. It was moments like these that made me wonder why Sarah had ever picked me. I was an idiot with words and even more so with women. She must have known this before she married me though, proof I guess that even our worst qualities could be endearing to the right person. Pocahontas was not Sarah though, and I would do well to remember that the next time I started to speak to her as such.

We'd been at this for a couple of weeks now, and the more time I spent with her, the more curious I became about the world that she came from and her innermost workings. She had a solidness about her, one that made her equal parts impenetrable and intimidating all at the same time. Sarah wore her thoughts on her face, but with Pocahontas, I could never really tell exactly what she was thinking. Hers was a mask, one carefully woven, whether out of diplomatic necessity or for her own protection, I wasn't entirely sure. Perhaps both.

It wasn't that I expected her to open up to me, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't hoping for it at least a little bit. After all, she knew better than anyone else in my circle, as of late, what it felt like to lose someone you loved. The Reverend tried of course, but the man never married, and sometimes you just needed the company of someone that didn't put God in the middle of every sentence. Sometimes you just needed someone who could sit with you in the dark and know. Not someone who would pray for you, not someone who filled the silence with empty reassurances because they couldn't take the stuffiness of the stillness, no. Sometimes you just needed someone who would sit with you and your grief and just know. Pocahontas knew, even if she would never trust me enough to say so. One day, we were transferring the tobacco plants to the ground when I couldn't take it anymore and said,

"Did I ever tell you where these seeds came from?" She was still digging in the dirt so she didn't look up at me. Her skirt was tucked underneath her, and she worked diligently, pressing the plants deep into the dirt and then covering them generously.

"You didn't," she replied, moving onto the next hole. She wiped a trail of sweat from her forehead but still wouldn't look at me.

"Trinidad," I said, and then realizing she probably didn't know what that was, I added, "It's an island a few weeks south of here." She was still working but appeared to be listening so I went on. "We were shipwrecked there on our way from England."

"Shipwrecked?"

"Stranded," I said. "Well sort of. There'd been a storm the night before, and the ship had taken quite a beating. It would have been unwise not to stop for repairs and more supplies..."

I watched as she covered the second plant and set to digging the next hole. She worked carefully and methodically, and with every stroke of her hands, I became more and more aware of the nervousness in my body, the fluttering in my stomach that spun and swelled the closer I got to saying Sarah's name.

"We were staying at an inn not far from the port: the Reverend, myself, and a few other passengers." I could feel my throat becoming dryer with every word.

"One morning, a day or two before we were supposed to leave, I woke early to venture into town. There was talk back home of what rich farmland the New World had to offer. Tobacco is an up and coming product in trading circles so I-"

"Figured you'd make your fortune here? In planting?" I couldn't be sure, but I thought I detected a hint of disdain, veiled as it was by busyness and what seemed like an unwillingness to look at me. I felt a flicker of defensiveness as the desire for wealth (which, by the way, was completely natural and had been since the days of Christ) was also not the point of my story. It occurred to me to push the feeling aside, but the words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.

"Yes," I said. "And there is nothing wrong with that." She stopped what she was doing and looked up at me then. The sun had made her toffee colored skin even darker than before. Thick strands of raven hair were starting to come loose from the ribbon that held them off her neck, and all the while she was looking at me, steely eyed and steady as if searching for something she knew she wouldn't find.

"I didn't say there was," she replied.

"But you implied it- with your face and your voice." She stood up at that, tossing the shovel aside and drawing herself up to her full height.

"John Rolfe," she said, "I did no such thing, and I should thank you for not telling me what I do and don't mean." She turned to leave then, but I caught her by the arm.

"Then what do you mean?" I asked. Now I really did want to know. She yanked herself away from me and took a few steps back.

"This land is not just here for your taking," she said.

"Taking?" A chuckle escaped my throat as I tried to picture myself riding in on my noble steed and driving all the snakes and vermin from my little, square space. "Pocahontas, I have no idea what you're talking about."

"No?" she said. "Then allow me to explain it to you."

000  
Pocahontas

Angry was not the right word. Exasperated, maybe. Exhausted, definitely, but not just by the physicalness of planting or the denseness of my new companion. No. It was the ignorance of an entire group of people who couldn't imagine the world from any perspective other than their own and the prospect of having to explain (again) why that was a problem. Mostly though it was the memories that this conversation evoked and the indisputable realization that John Smith was the anomaly in all this. He listened, and because of this, he was correctable. John Rolfe was not. Or maybe he was, and I just didn't want him to be. If he were, then John Smith was not the anomaly that I thought he was. He was just someone that I had loved that loved me, and that meant that someone else could too. Even just the thought of this felt disgustingly disloyal. I pushed it aside, then told him the same thing I told John Smith. He listened well enough, but "I see" was the only thing he said.

"Do you though?" I was afraid of the answer. John Rolfe took a deep breath and looked up at the sky.

"I am an educated man, Pocahontas," he said, "but I only know what I've been taught." He shrugged and shook his head. "Today you taught me something I hadn't considered before. I haven't had enough time to process yet, but I'm learning."

That was what I was afraid of.

"Do you think," he said after a beat, "Do you think we could start over?"

His eyes were so apologetic... and hopeful. I couldn't very well say no.

000

He told me about his wife then, and I nodded along as if I didn't already know what he was going to say.

"Sarah was still in bed when I left- a headache, she said, but not to worry. It was probably just the change in weather. I kissed her on the cheek and told her I'd be back." He sucked in a breath. I looked at my feet. I was just starting to inspect the pebbles underneath when he said it.

"She died while I was gone. When I came back, she had her eyes closed so I just thought she'd fallen back asleep. When I couldn't wake her... Well, I don't remember much after that."

His shoulders shook, and I thought maybe he was about to cry. I didn't really think about what I did next, just reached out my hand and brushed his wrist. The wind picked up, sweeping the loose strands of hair from both our faces and charging the ensuing silence with a deep sense of knowing. I knew what he was going through because I was still going through it too.

"Tell me about her," I said. "What was she like?" He looked at me perplexed, as if he was surprised that I really wanted to know.

"Well," he said, furrowing his brow, "she was wild for one. Didn't care much for the rules and restrictions of the world she was raised in. While all of her sisters were focussed on securing husbands, she just wanted to see the world. Leaving London and coming here, that was actually her idea. I just followed suit..."

I learned a lot about Sarah that day and not just the superficial things like how much she loved the seaside or that she preferred trousers to skirts. Like me, I learned that her mother had died giving birth to her youngest sister and that her father was her favorite person in the world. I learned that she was righteous and headstrong and that if something wasn't right, she was often the first to say so.

"One time we were coming out of church, and there was this beggar standing outside."

We'd moved to the shade by this time and were sitting with our backs against the house. I listened intently as he told me about Sarah turning right around and marching back into the church to get somebody.

"'We can't just do nothing' she'd said. And then as if sensing my protest, she yelled, 'Matthew 25:40!' over her shoulder and disappeared back into the building." John Rolfe chuckled at this.

"Matthew twenty-five, what?"

" ' Truly I tell you, what you do for the least of these you also do for me, and what you didn't do for the least of these, you didn't do for me."'

The words did not seem to be his own so I waited for him to explain. He smiled as if hearing my thoughts.

"Jesus said this to his disciples. It means that whatever you do for others, you also do for God. But if you pass by a hungry person and refuse to help them for example, it is as if you have refused to help God Himself." I must have still looked confused because he added, "It's a warning, one of the few that Sarah took very seriously, which is why she was so upset when the Deacon told her to have the man come back when the office was open." He sighed. "They took two offerings that day. I thought she was going to explode."

"Did she?"

John Rolfe smiled.

"Without question. She told the Deacon that there would be judgement for his negligence and then stormed out."

"And the man on the street?"

"She gave him the few coins we had and asked if she could pray for him. I don't think he understood much of what she was saying- his English wasn't very good- but he smiled and thanked her, and when we got home, she wrote a strongly worded letter to the Church of England Herself." He shook his head at this, and his sight was suddenly very far away as if he were back across the sea.

"A few weeks later there was a sermon on Matthew 25:40, and all she wanted was for the Church to admit that they'd screwed up."

"Did they?"

"No," he said.

"So what did Sarah do?" I was genuinely interested now. I liked the sound of Sarah and felt like we could have been friends.

"She withdrew our financial contribution and found a different church," said John Rolfe, "and when the priest came by asking why we'd left, she was very honest with him. She said she wouldn't be led by hypocrites and that if the Church wouldn't use God's money to help people, then she would."

"I can't imagine that went over very well."

"Not at all," John Rolfe laughed, "but I had never loved her more..."

We talked like that for a long time, and eventually, I told him about John Smith too. It was hard at first, but I found that the more I talked about him, the easier it got. It helped that John Rolfe asked questions too. A few evenings later, we were walking the perimeter of the fort when we reached the side by the sea. I stopped, listening to the waves crash on the other side of the wall and tried to remember what it looked like. Jamestown had changed so much over the last few years. The sea had not, so maybe just remembering would be like seeing it again. Maybe, I thought, but probably not. When I looked up, John Rolfe was smiling at me.

"Do you want to see the ocean?" he asked. His eyes lit up as he said this, as if all I had to say was yes.

"I can't," I said. "It's on the other side of the wall."

"So?"

"So there are sentries," I said. "They're not just going to let me walk out without saying anything."

John Rolfe shrugged.

"Not alone, no. But who says they have to know?"

000  
John Rolfe

I was being reckless. I knew that even before I started pushing against the fence and inspecting it for defects. The penalty for something like this was nothing short of flogging, but I was prepared to hurt if it meant feeling something again.

"But what about Al- the Reverend?" she asked. "Won't he get in trouble for this?"

"Not if I say he had nothing to do with it," I replied, "which he didn't." I could feel her watching me as I walked up and down the wall, scouring the boards for even the slightest bit of leaning. Even the smallest unsteadiness would be enough for me to leverage, and we could get in and out unnoticed.

It didn't take long for me to find what I was looking for. The winter elements had damaged one of the corner boards just enough to come loose. I jiggled it aside until there was enough space for someone to sneak through. The smell of salt and sea came barreling through the opening.

"After you," I said, gesturing to the path I'd made. Pocahontas looked uneasily over her shoulder.

"Are you sure about this?" she asked.

"No," I replied. I wasn't sure about anything, but then again, who ever was?


	9. Deal or no Deal

Captain Argall

The Natives did not respond right away. In fact they seemed to have vanished, fled somewhere secret, perhaps altogether. At first it was eerie and then suspicious as if at any moment they could conjure themselves from the woodwork and attack. They never did.

Days turned to weeks without so much as the rustling of leaves and the occasional snap of a twig along the edges of the fort where my men stood guard. I ordered them there in shifts: some during the day and some at night. Most of them were just settlers with muskets, a makeshift militia with no formal training save for what they'd learned on their farms back home. Morale was low though, and what we did have from the Natives in terms of food and provisions was dwindling rapidly. I said as much in my letters to the Company, and when they asked about the Natives, I told them about that too. Perhaps Pocahontas was not as valuable as I'd thought she was. Perhaps the only way forward was reinforcements so I asked for those too.

I looked at my latest letter still wet with the seal of my position. The wax emblem was solidifying and growing harder around the edges, much like my resolve which became even more fixed the longer the Natives stayed silent. Surely the Chief had not abandoned his most precious daughter, but the more time that passed, the more I began to believe he did.

A knock at the door startled me to attention.

"Come in," I sighed, pushing the letter to the corner of my desk. I don't know who I'd been expecting, but a dark man in animal hide most certainly wasn't it.

"Captain?" Amos was standing behind him, but he was barely visible behind the Native's head. The man was imposing, stoic, and familiar. His features were sharp and chiseled as if they'd been carved from the forest itself. I didn't know his name, but I knew who he was and for what he had come.

"This is Nomito, an emissary of Chief Powhatan. He's here to discuss Pocahontas."

"Very well," I said, waving them both in and gesturing for the man to sit. He did not. "Alright then. Can I at least offer you something to drink?"

The man said nothing, just continued to stare at me through piercing, ink-like eyes. My hand wandered to the pistol resting against my thigh. Amos brushed the grip of his too and nodded as if reading my mind. The Native's gaze flickered to my side.

"There's no need for weapons," he said. "I'm just here to deliver a message."

"The last time I got a message from you people, it was bad. For the sake of your princess," I said, "this better be good." The Native sighed as if he'd expected as much.

"Chief Powhatan has agreed to send a group to teach you how to hunt and plant."

I sat up straighter. Whatever deal I'd been expecting to negotiate, this most certainly wasn't it. I shifted forward in my seat, intrigued but also incredibly puzzled. After everything we'd done to them, why would the Chief risk even more of his people? He had to know we could just take them too, and I told the man as much, studying his reaction. A muscle twitched as his mouth cemented into a hard, thin line.

"He said you'd say that," the Native said, "but if you want your village to live, you won't."

"Is that a threat?"

"A fact," Nomito replied, "because hunger is a horrible way to go." He folded his arms across his chest and cocked his head to the side. "You know that though."

Amos was looking at me then, poised and apprehensive as if not quite sure what he should be doing to support. It occurred to me to dismiss him, but when Nomito took a step forward, I was glad that I hadn't. I watched as Amos slid his gun out of its holster and pointed it at the man's back.

"Suppose we accept your offer," I ventured, refocusing my gaze on Nomito's face. "What would your chief get in return?"

"Pocahontas," said Nomito, "after the work is done. Until then," he said, "we would settle just to see her."

"How often?" I asked.

"Every time we come to your village. She knows this land," he added. "Perhaps she can help too."

Amos lowered his pistol as I stood to my feet. Teaching would certainly be more sustainable than war, and when it was over, I would decide what to do with the girl. For now, I agreed to give her up.

"I'd like to see her before I leave," said Nomito. "Powhatan needs to be sure she's well."

"Of course," I replied. "We will escort you straight away."

On our way out, I nodded to Amos and a guard named James to follow. We called on the Reverend's house first, and when no one answered, we let ourselves in.

"Check upstairs," I told James. He came back shaking his head, but there was still one more place she could be.

When we reached the church, I pushed open the door and scanned the room for the Reverend and his charge. The Reverend was at his pulpit, but the girl was nowhere to be seen. Reverend Alexander startled.

"Captain!" he said. "Is there something I can help you with?"

A low, guttural sound escaped my throat.

"You know damn well what you can help me with," I said. "Where is she?"


	10. The Best Intentions

Reverend Alexander

I was just about finished with my sermon when the door to the sanctuary flew open. The weight of it slammed against the wall with such force that the glass shook in the window pane beside me, and the ground shuddered underneath my feet. The sound was something awful and menacing, like a cannon, and for a second, I thought we were under attack. In a way I suppose we were.

"WHERE IS SHE?!" bellowed Captain Argall for the second time. Behind him stood a guard, a council member, and a tall, native looking man with a shaved head and sharp, eagle-like eyes. He was wearing what looked like animal skin trousers, no shirt, and an expression that was flat and unreadable.

From behind the altar I could see the Caption, ballooned with rage and something explosive. Whatever conversation he and the Native had must not have gone well, and if I had to guess, Pocahontas was about to be in the middle of it.

"Sh-she was with John Rolfe," I replied. "Is she not?" Argall's face seemed to pucker in reply.

"John who?" he spat.

"The tobacco planter," I said, and then as if he'd demanded more I added, "She was helping him with his crop."

"His- WHAT?!" A wave of fury whipped across the Captain's face, and I was startled by the intensity of it. The guard behind him tensed.

"She was YOUR responsibility! Was she NOT?!"

I couldn't very well argue.

"Yes, well-

"AND NOW YOU'RE TELLING ME YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHERE SHE IS!"

It was not a question.

Yes, no. Maybe.

Argall swore under his breath.

"Find her!" he barked to the men behind him. To me he hissed, "You too."

The council member and the guard ascended the altar, seized my arms, and escorted me out the door. Wherever Pocahontas was, I prayed it was close.

000  
Pocahontas

The last rays of daylight glinted off the glassy surface as we slid down the bank and toward the sand. The sky, streaked with shades of sea and lilac, seemed even bigger out here than it did inside the fort. A soft breeze rippled across the shoreline, cool and ghostly like someone was touching me. I closed my eyes and breathed in the smell of it, listening to the waves as they lapped against the land. They leapt and danced as if overjoyed by the appearance of old friends. "You're here!" they seemed to shout, and I knew the feeling because I'd missed them too.

When we reached the sand, I took off my shoes and felt the remnants of the day's heat under my feet.

"Thank you," I said to John Rolfe who was inspecting the ground for stones and skipping them along the waves. He didn't say anything, just stared out into the abyss and shook his head, nodding.

"I forgot how massive this thing is. Crazy to think that the rest of the world is just beyond that horizon." He lowered himself onto the sand. I did too. "Someday," he said, and again his sight was miles away.

"You think you'll leave?" I asked. "But what about the seeds and your dream?" Surely we hadn't done all that work for nothing. He looked at me then, his mouth turning up slightly.

"It costs money to leave," he replied. "The tobacco is just a means to an end now."

I was surprised by the twinge I felt as he said this. We hadn't known each other long, but I was beginning to see him as a friend, one that I could confide in and that I was reluctant to lose.

"Where will you go?" I asked. "Back to London?" He shook his head.

"India maybe. Or further up the coast. I'm not too picky," he said. "I'd go wherever God took me."

We were silent after that, each of us lost in the lull of the sea and the ocean of our own thoughts. I wondered when he'd decided that fortune making was no longer the future he saw for himself. I was just about to ask when a shot erupted from down the beach. John Rolfe sprang to his feet and whipped himself in front of me.

As the sun dipped low into the water, I could just make out the visage of Captain Samuel Argall barreling toward us. He was accompanied by two soldiers, a lengthy man in deer hide, and someone in white.

"The Reverend," John Rolfe said.

000  
Rolfe

"What do we do?" she asked. I watched as the Reverend was dragged through the sand. My legs were suddenly heavy as I realized what I'd done. I turned to look at her.

"Stay here," I said. "This is my mess. I'll fix it."

"John-" she started to say, but I was already moving in their direction. The sun had disappeared behind the water, and I didn't know if the drop in temperature was due to its retreat or my own fear. The Captain was not more than ten feet away now. I could see his face shrouded in shadow and as purple as the sky.

"Restrain him!" he said to his men. As if right on cue, they dropped the Reverend and wrestled me to the ground. Face in the dirt and hands behind my back, there was a whirl of sand as someone else took off in the direction of Pocahontas. There was yelling, then another shot.

"He's trying to get her to run," the Reverend said.

"Good," I couldn't help but reply and was rewarded with a swift kick to the head.

000  
Pocahontas

John let out a guttural shout, or maybe I just thought he did. The only sound I could actually hear was the roar of the waves as if even the sea were disturbed by what was happening. A tall, dark figure came flying toward me, soaring over the sand like a bird of the night. Another shot rang out, but they kept coming. I put my hands up in full surrender. It was only then that I realized who it was.

"What are you doing?!" Nomito shouted. He was flailing his arms and gesturing up the bank toward the trees. A bullet whizzed over our heads as he seized me by the waste, flung me over his shoulder, and proceeded to carry me to the safety of the forest.

"Wait!" I screamed, but he either didn't hear me or didn't care to reply. He was solid and slippery underneath me, and the hair in my face made it impossible to see. I shoved it aside as he kept running.

"Nomito, please!" I started kicking then which made him unstable and angry. He faltered to the side.

"Enough!" he said, regaining his balance and tightening his grip around my legs. I knew from many years of watching our warriors train that there was a spot just below the back of the knee, a secret spot that incapacitates when force is applied. He clamped down hard as I continued to scream.

"They'll kill him!" I said. "Nomito, please just-"

"You will not risk your life for another one of them!"

The trees were in reach now. I could tell by the shadows of the branches that waved over our heads and onto the ground below. They were all I could see save for the hair that kept flying in my face. I threw my weight back and forth as another round of gunshots erupted behind us. That was when Nomito fell.

I tumbled over the top of him, but what should have been a painful landing produced no feeling at all. Or maybe I just thought it didn't. The clatter of Argall and his men got closer and closer as I rolled away from Nomito and back toward the sea. When I opened my eyes, Nomito had fled, and the clattering ceased.

"Get over here, or I'll shoot!" Argall exclaimed as if I was supposed to be surprised that he had a gun and that shooting it was an entirely new threat, not something he'd been doing this whole time.

With as much strength as I had left, I pushed myself into a sitting position and looked down the shoreline. Sure enough, Argall had a gun, but it wasn't pointing at me. It was pointed at John Rolfe's head. My blood iced over, and my skin began to prickle as I staggered to my feet.

"Alright!" I screamed. "Just please don't hurt him!"

As if in response, Argall grabbed John by the hair and yanked his head back to reveal the white gleam of his throat. The men behind him had yanked him to his knees while Argall pressed the barrel to John's pulse. My own felt like it was going to fly out of my neck.

"NOW!" Argall roared, and all of a sudden, it wasn't a beach that I was running down. It was a cliff, and at the end of it was a John and a bullet and the sinking realization that I had run this race before.

000  
Alex

Seminary had taught me a lot of things, but de-escalating a severely pissed off official with a gun lodged in somebody's throat was not one of them. In fact, de-escalation of any kind had not made it onto the syllabus at all. It was as if ministers were only ever anticipated to be of help to people under certain circumstances and in certain states, but I wasn't an idiot, and the whole "Let me pray for you" was most certainly not going to help anyone in this case.

John was shouting at Pocahontas not to do it, to turn around and run the other way, but she was too stubborn to listen, and I knew that even before the Captain punched him in the face. Blood splattered the hem of my robe and the ground near my feet.

Think! But still, nothing was coming to me.

When Pocahontas got close enough, she threw her hands up in breathless surrender.

"You can have me!" she wheezed. "Let him go! Please!"

Argall looked from her to John and then back to me. We were all breathing heavily, including the councilman and the guard, so in a last ditch effort for peace and civility, I asked the one question we were all thinking.

"Pocahontas, what were you doing out here anyway?"

She put her hands on her knees and swallowed.

"I wanted to see the ocean," she said. "So I tricked John Rolfe into taking me."

"She's lying!" John said, struggling against Argall's men as he did so. They tightened their grip and smacked him into the gun barrel. Pocahontas flinched. I did too. Through gritted teeth he said, "It was my idea. I swear it."

Argall still hadn't lowered his weapon, but he drew himself up to his full height before lowering himself into John's face to say,

"And just who the hell are you?"

Thick, caterpillar brows draped over an angled face black with rage. Under a puddle of blood, John's expression was devoid of emotion. He didn't even look afraid, odd considering that the answer to this question could very well determine his fate.

"The tobacco planter?" Argall asked, clicking the bullet into place. It was like he was testing our reactions (mine especially), and I knew this because I caught the faintest of smiles on his face. Argall looked at me sideways.

"H- he's my friend!" Pocahontas stammered, but I knew John would have to be more than that if the Captain was going to leave them in peace. There was no other way.

"Her lover," I interjected, ignoring the stares as everyone except John whirled around to look at me.

It was only two words, but they hung around us like a heavy cloak. The Captain lowered his gun. Pocahontas looked at the ground, and though I couldn't see John's face, I watched him stiffen under his captors' weight.

"Her...what?" Argall spat. . Then he and his men started to laugh. "This guy," he snorted, "this guy right here? And you!" He whirled around to face Pocahontas. "You do like white cock, don't you?"

Pocahontas's mouth fell, and her face turned a sickly gray. Argall took her by the arm then and yanked her to himself as if he was going to assault her right there in front of us. I thought I was going to be sick.

"Captain, please!" I said, realizing too late that what I'd meant and what Argall had heard were two very different things. I watched, horrified, as Pocahontas struggled against the Captain's weight. Then as if thinking better of it, she pulled back and spat in his face. Argall made a fist as if preparing to strike her.

"Argall, wait!" I cried. "They're engaged!"

The air itself seemed to freeze. I didn't realize I'd quit breathing, but so, I think, did everyone else. Argall lowered his hand and wiped the spit from his face as Pocahontas yanked her wrist away.

"Engaged?" he said, fixing me with a chiseled stare. "She's not even baptized."

"Yet," I added. "We're working on that too." Or we would, now that it was the only way to save all of our lives. Argall himself was unmoving and intense, but so was I as I worked to keep a straight face. The whole world seemed to stop. I didn't look at anyone but Argall. No one moved or said anything.

I don't know how long we stood there before the Captain finally sighed and put away his weapon.

"Fine," he said, dropping his gaze to John. "You're still getting lashed though." To Pocahontas he said, "And you, my dear..." An unnerving smile slid across his face. "You get to watch."


	11. Blood and Debt

John Rolfe

The prison that I found myself in was none other than the bottom-most deck of the ship that I'd come on. Jamestown had homes, a church, and a government center but no jail. That's what the Captain's men told me when I asked them why we were still on the outside of the fort. At first, I thought they were going to kill me and let the animals eat the remains. Then I remembered what the Captain said to Pocahontas about watching, and I had no doubt that he'd make her watch that too.

It wasn't death that scared me. Hell, I wasn't even afraid of the lashing they'd promised me. I welcomed it, truly, because it didn't make sense that you could hurt so much on the inside and feel nothing externally. If grief were an explosion, then it only made sense that it would rip through everything in its vicinity, including but especially, my physical body. I needed that balance more than I needed to breathe, so when Argall threatened to shoot me, I welcomed it. When he punched me in the face, I welcomed that too. The only thing I couldn't stand was the look on Pocahontas's face because the pain that I thought was mine and mine alone was all of a sudden affecting her too. And then there was the matter of marrying her.

There was no light in the bottom of the ship save for what was able to peek through the cracks in the floor above. It was cold and musty, surrounded by empty crates and ghostly debris, remnants of a journey long over though it felt very much like yesterday. I tried not to think too much about it as the water lolled the entire ship and its contents from side to side. I was tied to a post facing the stairwell, so I leaned into it and closed my eyes. My head was still throbbing mercilessly, and there was a sickness swaying in my stomach, but whether it was from the waves or what I'd gotten us all into, I couldn't confidently say.

The door to the stairwell slid open sharply, and I startled at the sound.

"I'll just be a minute," someone said. A long, flowing figure descended the staircase, but the light behind them made their other features impossible to see.

"John!" the Reverend said, crouching down beside me. There were a million things I wanted to say to him then, but the only thing that came out was Pocahontas.

"She's safe," he assured me. "They won't let her come down here, but she's waiting right outside."

"And her thoughts?" I asked. "About this whole marriage thing?" His eyes were apologetic, but he didn't avert my gaze.

"I'm sorry," he said. "It was the only way I could save your life."

"And hers?" I asked. "She doesn't love me like that, Reverend."

"She cares enough to go through with it," he offered.

"That's not the same thing!"

I don't think he was expecting my outburst, but it needed to be said. My life and whatever became of my choices was not enough of a reason to get married. Sneaking out was my idea so whatever it cost to fix the fallout was not her sacrifice to make.

"You should have just let him shoot me," I said. The Reverend looked as if I had slapped him across the face.

"You don't really mean that."

"I do," I said. "In fact, I was kind of counting on it." 

Reverend Alexander stiffened but didn't say anything. The space between us stilled, and there was an angry, buzzing energy. It sizzled and breathed, waiting, it seemed, for an explosion that never came.

"Reverend!" one of the guards shouted. "Let's go!"

He didn't move right away, just continued to stare at me as if I were a stranger, and he was trying to figure out how he knew me. It suddenly occurred to me that maybe he never did.

"Reverend!" the guard called again. The second time must have woken something in him because he jerked to his feet and turned toward the stairs.

"I'll have the physician waiting for you right after," he said, but before I could say anything more, he turned back over his shoulder and added, "Pocahontas insisted."

000  
Pocahontas

When Alex emerged, it took everything I had not to pepper him with questions. The councilman and the soldier from earlier had been replaced by two other men whose job it was to protect the fort at nightfall. Usually they were stationed on platforms on the other side of the settlement. Tonight they were aboard the Sea Venture, guarding a "rogue tobacco man" (as they put it) and looking way too pleased about their new assignment, like boys who had just been entrusted with their father's newest toy. John was not a toy though, and neither was I, though you'd never know it by the way they were looking at me. When Alex came back, I was relieved. He nodded at the guards but didn't say anything.

The walk back to the house was insufferable and weighty. There were so many things that I wanted to say, but I waited until he'd secured the door behind us to speak. The entryway was dark and chilly as Alex faltered for a candle and started into the living room toward the fireplace.

"How is he?" I asked, but the Reverend gave no reply. I watched as he fiddled with the grate, stacking and then re-stacking the wood inside.

"Alex," I said. Still, he wouldn't look at me, not until the fire was lit and I'd positioned myself so close to him, rendering the man no other choice.

"He's fine," Alex replied. There was a sharpness in his voice though that concerned me- that and his face which had never looked so forlorn.

"He doesn't want to marry me, does he?" I don't know why that was the first thing that came to mind. I certainly wasn't offended if he didn't. I wasn't quite sure how I felt about it either, and yet, if it was the only way to quell Argall, then perhaps there was no other choice. Alex sighed and fixed his attention back on the flames, the shadows they created flickering anxiously across his face.

"Worse," he replied. Eyeing me sideways he said, "He wanted to die." I watched as Alex drew in a shaky breath and lowered himself onto his knees in front of the grate. He slumped back against his heels, distressed by his friend's words and all that he had done to provoke them.

"You don't really believe that," I said, though I hadn't known John nearly as long as he had and couldn't say for certain what was true. Alex looked at me then, the fire swirling in his molten, brown eyes.

"Do you?" he asked. "Believe it?"

"No," I said, with more conviction than was reasonable for me to have. I'd spent a considerable amount of time with John over the last few weeks, but that wasn't the same as traveling an ocean with him, and it definitely wasn't the equivalent of being there when Sarah died. That was Alex's privilege, not mine, and though I knew that John wore his grief like a sentence, I didn't believe that death was what he really wanted. What he wanted was to stop hurting, and I told Alex as much. It just came out like that because to him, there seemed to be no other choice.

"Seemed like he meant it to me," Alex said. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because if he really wanted to die, he would have done it already."

The Reverend seemed to consider this as he turned back to the flames. I don't know how long we sat there before he pushed himself to his feet.

"I'm sorry," he said. "About all of this." I was too but not for the reasons he may have been thinking. I knew that sneaking out to the sea was a bad idea, and I also knew the cost even before I agreed to do so. I could have stopped it. I should have suggested a walk the other way, but I didn't because I was selfish, and I wanted to see the sea. So whatever price John Rolfe would pay for our recklessness, I was prepared to pay it too. Even if it meant pledging my allegiance to an unfamiliar God. Even if it meant being married to someone that I liked but didn't love.

The next morning I rose just before dawn. The sky was still a misty bruise, but that seemed fitting considering what was to come. I ventured down the stairs to find Alex sitting at the kitchen table. He had one hand on a cup tea and the other curled over what I now knew was called a Rosary. He stared blankly into his palm, the remnants of insomnia weighing down his cheeks. He jumped when he saw me.

"Didn't sleep?" I asked.

"Not a wink," he said.

"Neither did I."

000

Argall waited until the sun was up before he dragged John from the ship and roused the rest of us from sleep. I was sitting in the Reverend's doorway long before that though, waiting and praying as much as I knew how. When John appeared with his head down and hands fastened together, being led on a leash like an animal to slaughter, it took everything I had not to cry out for his attention. Alex put a hand on my shoulder as we watched.

"We'll have him back as soon as we can," he said- what was left anyway, though nobody would say as much.

A crowd gathered as people peeked through their windows, beckoned into the street by the commotion below. A post had been erected in the center of the settlement some time during the night. It loomed large and ominous, its shadow so sinister that no one would go near it. There, Argall's men strung John up by the wrists and ripped his shirt down the back, revealing a line of taut and straining muscles wrapped in a canvas of perfect white. My stomach lurched as Argall sauntered into view and then position, the tail of his ornamental officer's coat trailing behind him. Having removed it with just the right amount of suspense and ceremony, he thrust it into one of his guard's arms and turned to face the crowd.

"Citizens of Jamestown!" he said, lifting his arms in greeting. Those that had gathered were mostly young men, though there were a handful of women lingering in doorways. Small children peered around their mothers' skirts, desperate to look but afraid to see. I watched as Argall's gaze flickered over the sea of faces, no doubt looking for one in particular. When his eyes settled on me, they glittered with satisfaction and the steady reassurance of someone who stood on the "right side" of history.

A stream of sweat ran the length of my back, but I didn't move to wipe it. Instead, I arranged my face into an emotionless mask and stared back at him, my own eyes curtained with what I hoped was something contemptuous and fearless. He smiled at this, turning back to the group of onlookers with a flare of energy as if he could see past the surface to the center of me where the air tasted like paint thinner and my heart banged around like a prisoner in its cavity, like the reality of these things had ignited something in him, and now we were all in for the performance of the century. I sensed he liked the drama of it.

"It has come to my attention," Argall said, "that our Native princess was shown outside our walls early last night." As if right on cue, I could feel hundreds of heads craning to look at me. Alex tightened his grip on my shoulder, and we both kept our eyes on Argall, waiting. Behind him, John was still, waiting too. The coolness of the early morning had vanished, replaced instead with an increasing heat. It was unclear though whether that heat was from the sun or the hell that was about to be unleashed.

The councilman who lived across the street handed Argall a long rod. On the end of it was a mop of leather cords, each one knotted and tipped with rock-like shards. They gleaned like teeth in the sunlight, shooting a malicious smile my way. Argall weighed the instrument in both hands, running his fingers along the edges as he continued to address the crowd.

"This man, John Rolfe of Heacham, stands accused of trying to help the Princess escape." Argall tore his gaze from the torture device long enough to look right at me saying, "He does not deny it." 

"The sentence," he went on, twirling the rod in slow, sickening circles, "will be twelve lashes administered publicly by none other than myself, loyal servant to our majesty King James the First and your captain, Samuel Argall."

Ever the fools for theatrics, the crowd drew in a collective breath and watched transfixed as Argall positioned himself behind John. Instinctively, I buried my face in Alex's robe, unable to watch though I could still hear the crack of leather on flesh and John's heart wrenching screams. I could sense my legs starting to give out as Alex spun me back around.

"I know," he said, "but Pocahontas, you have to look. He'll make it worse for John if you don't." The blood ran in angry, crimson streaks, weaving in and out of themselves like a spider web painting. They poured down John's back and pooled underneath his and Argall's feet. By the third strike, my legs had completely given out, and I was begging Alex to do something.

"Please!" I screamed, not caring who heard me. I threw my whole weight into Alex's chest with a violence that nearly knocked both of us to our knees. He was struggling to keep me upright, but I kept fighting him anyway.

"He'll kill him!" I screamed. "Alex! Alex, please, he's leaving me!" John's entire body went limp, and he'd stopped responding. His hair had come loose from the ribbon that held it, clinging to his neck and splaying over his shoulders in wet, tangled strings. Argall had stopped long enough to survey the damage and wipe the sweat from his cheek. He glanced at us then, smiling wryly.

"Shhh," Alex hushed. "I know it's hard, but you must not scream. That's exactly what Argall wants." Alex was right of course. My reaction only intensified the spectacle and fueled Argall's strength, not to mention what it was doing to John if he was still conscious enough to hear me.

"Only three more," Alex whispered. "Then I'll cut him down myself." I couldn't believe he was still counting, his arms having collapsed from under my elbows to my waist.

Argall seemed to be taking his sweet time with the last three. He paused after the first one, breathing heavily and slithering up to John's side. He seemed to be checking for something as if making sure that he was still alive. I dug my nails into Alex's wrists, reeling.

"Two more," he breathed, but whether it was to himself or for me, I couldn't say. I watched as Argall said something to John and choked back a shriek when he gave no visible reply.

Crack, crack!

Argall hadn't even turned around before I wrenched myself from Alex's grip and darted toward John.

"Cut him down!" someone shouted, which they did, and he fell like a timber into the dirt in front of me.


	12. Part XI: The Best Laid Plans

Alex

John hit the ground in a heap of dust and fileted meat before either of us could reach him. No one moved to help save for a young man in green with long limbs and a clumsy agileness. Together, we hoisted John to his feet and dragged him from the post to my kitchen, parting the crowd of spectators as we did so. The physician had already cleared a space on the table where he gestured for us to lay him.  
“On his stomach. That’s it.”  
There was an assortment of viles on the windowsill, all of different sizes and colors. A pot of something potent and herbal boiled over the fire. Upon closer inspection, I noticed that there were strips of cloth in there too. The physician held a bottle of brandy in his hand, but whether it was for himself or for medical purposes, I wasn’t entirely sure. He took a swig and held it out to me.  
“You’re shaking,” he said, remnants of adrenaline no doubt, though I hadn’t noticed until he’d pointed it out. I’d never been much for drinking, not for sport and most certainly not as a stress reliever. Still, I took the bottle from him with thanks. Not wanting to be rude, I offered it to our helper too, but he shook his head and politely excused himself.  
“Thanks for your help,” I said. “I don’t know if I would’ve gotten him back here without you.” The boy nodded, chancing a glance at John on the table and the physician who had started cleaning the dirt out of his wounds.   
“I do hope he recovers,” he said before showing himself out. Pocahontas mumbled something as he passed. She was standing off to the side, just over the threshold with her arms folded across her chest. I wanted to say something, but there was a warm sensation in my stomach and a buzzing in my head as the alcohol started to take effect.  
John didn’t stir under the physician’s careful hands. He laid there, motionless, which would have been a lot less concerning if we could see him breathing. Pocahontas was the first to say something. Before anyone could protest, she crept up to John’s side and placed two fingers on his neck, feeling for something.  
“He’s waning,” she said.  
“Of course he is,” the physician replied. “He’s lost a lot of blood.” Having extracted as much of the dirt as he could by hand, he crossed the room and bent down over the pot on the fire. He stirred its contents, inspecting them carefully before removing the cloth within.   
There’s a bottle of eucalyptus on the windowsill,” he said. “It’s the only non-liquid with leaves.”   
“I know what it is,” Pocahontas snapped which surprised the doctor way more than me. If there was one thing she knew besides diplomacy, it was the land and all that it had to offer. I’d seen it myself over the last few weeks, and John had confirmed it. When the doctor recovered, he told her to uncork the vile and hold it under John’s nose. She was way ahead of him though, and John jerked at the smell.  
“Shh,” she whispered, pushing the hair from his eyes. “You’re safe,” she assured him. “Everything is going to be alright.”   
The physician and I exchanged a look as he whimpered under her hand. Bringing the boiled cloth to the table, he told John what he was about to do and offered him opium in case he didn’t want to be awake for it. John’s eyes rolled open and closed, but other than that, he gave no reply. The doctor looked at Pocahontas who was still stroking John’s head.  
“The purple vial,” he said. “See if you can get him to take it.” She did as she was told, unscrewing the top and bringing the contents to John’s mouth.  
“Swallow this,” she said coaxing it down his throat. I couldn’t be certain of course, but it was almost as if she’d done this before, the hysteria of the last thirty minutes seeming to have left her. Perhaps it was knowing that he had lived or having something to do. Whatever the reason, I was grateful for her presence and even more for her reaction at the post. If there were any doubt that she and John were together (or at the very least that she cared for him) it was long gone now. I had a flash of the smile on Argall’s face as he watched her, undoubtedly pleased with the punishment that he was inflicting. He believed us, and as vile and deceitful as it was, it was also the only thing that mattered.

000  
Pocahontas 

Alex and I took turns watching John for the rest of the day and through the night. The opium had a near immediate effect, but it didn’t stop him from feeling everything. When the medicine man poured the rest of the alcohol over his back, he let out a terrifying cry and shook with such force that I thought he was going to fling himself off the table.   
“Hold him,” the medicine man said, but even in a drug induced haze, the strength of him was still too much for me. Alex had to help. When the alcohol had settled, I wiped up the excess and watched as the medicine man dressed John’s wounds. He draped the boiled cloth along his back and told us to keep him on his front. He had other patients to attend to, but he’d be back in a few hours to check on him and change the bandages. The second time he changed them, he showed us how to boil the cloth so that we could do it ourselves.   
“Do this one more time tonight and again tomorrow morning,” he said. “If he doesn’t want to eat, that’s alright, but he should get plenty of water. If you can get him to take some broth, even better.”   
We stood in the hallway just outside the kitchen, John’s sleeping form resting in the background, albeit fitfully.  
“And for the pain?” Alex asked.  
“Opium,” the medicine man replied, producing another purple vial from the bag that he carried. “Only if he really needs it though and not the whole thing or it could halt his breathing.” He placed it in my palm, and I nodded, turning the capsule over in my hands.   
“We have this too,” I remarked, but it wasn’t just medicinal; it was for ceremonial purposes too. I remembered the elders that used to smoke it and shuddered at the memory of the smell- like incense but mustier and rotting. I couldn’t imagine it tasted very good either.   
“It doesn’t,” the medicine man confirmed, “but at least he’ll be able to sleep.” And he did. Mostly. Sunset was when he started to stir again. Alex made some broth for dinner just as the medicine man had suggested, but when I offered it to him, he refused.   
“Water then?” He grunted something that could have only been a yes because he didn’t push it away. I reached for the ladle that Alex had laid out for that exact purpose and scooped as much as I could from the pot at my feet. When I brought it to his lips, he drank willingly. His lips were cracked and peeling.  
“More?” I asked. He grunted again, nodding slightly. I watched as he drained a second ladle and then a third.  
“Thank you,” he mouthed. Then he put his cheek on the table and fell back asleep. Eventually I drifted off too. When I woke, the sun had long since set, and Alex was shaking my shoulder. The room was filled with an orange glow, and there was a small fire fluttering in the hearth.   
“Pocahontas, you should go upstairs for a few hours,” he said. “I can handle this.” I didn’t really want to leave him, but I also didn’t have the strength to argue.   
“You’ll come get me if anything happens?” I asked.  
“Of course,” he promised. But Alex didn’t come get me. In fact, he let me sleep through the entire next morning and into the afternoon. When I came back downstairs, it was to the sound of sobbing.  
“He keeps asking for Sarah,” Alex said. “I gave him some opium, but I think it only made him worse.”   
Indeed. The bandages were soaked with sweat, and he was shaking again. The violent movement must have ripped his lashes because there were spurts of blood pooling to the surface too.   
“Go get the medicine man,” I said. To John I whispered, “It’s okay. I’m right here.” His eyes flashed open, but they were glassy and unseeing.   
“Sarah?” he asked. My heart constricted in my chest, but I forced a smile and shook my head. If it was any comfort, then...  
“Yes,” I said, wiping a stray tear from his cheek. “I’m right here.” The trembling seemed to stop then, and he clamored for my hand which I handed over immediately. He pressed my fingers to his lips and then my palm against his cheek like a protective covering. I tried not to think too much about the last time I'd done something like this, so when Alex came back with the medicine man, I was relieved to have something else to focus on.   
“Did you give him anymore opium?” the medicine man asked.  
“No,” I said. “Al- We- we think it might be making him worse.”   
He lifted one of the bandages to inspect what was underneath before removing them altogether. Sure enough, the flesh had split back open in places, but it wasn’t just blood that was seeping out. There was a white, gooey substance along the wounds as well.   
“Damn it,” the medicine man muttered. “I need another pot of water on the fire and any alcohol you have.”  
“Will wine do?” Alex asked.  
“Anything.” While Alex dug around in the cupboards, I leaned over the creamy fluid for a better look.  
“What is it?” I asked.  
“Inflammation,” the medicine man replied. Alex had found the wine and set it on the windowsill with the rest of the supplies. Our faces must have betrayed our lack of understanding.  
“Fever,” he clarified, which made sense considering John’s warped sense of reality.   
“Oh the opium is definitely contributing to that,” he said as he worked. “Hold this for me, will you? Yes, just like that.” I slid my hand out from under John’s long enough to hold a bandage while the medicine man doused it with church wine.  
“You’re not going to pour it on his back again?” I asked.   
“Not this time,” he replied. “I need him to sit with it a little bit longer to kill the inflammation.”  
I watched as he sifted through the contents of his bag and produced a thick, leather patch which he handed to me too.  
“Have him bight down on this,” he instructed. “What I’m about to do next will hurt a bit.”  
“What about the opium?” I asked. The medicine man shook his head.   
“Don’t give him anymore until later this afternoon and only if he really needs it.”  
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, bending down to John’s head and offering him the piece of leather. His entire face seemed to droop, but he took it between his teeth without incident.   
“Ready?” the medicine man asked. John made a low, guttural sound. I nodded, smoothing his hair back.

000 

The next few days all blurred together. Alex and I took turns changing John’s dressing and trying to persuade him to eat. The bulk of him seemed to be withering away at an alarming rate, though the medicine man assured us that a lack of appetite was normal, especially with everything he had to process. By the third day, we’d relocated him to Alex’s bedroom on the same floor. A couple days later I came in to find him sitting up with both legs draped over the side of the bed. The cloth bandages still clung to his skin, but they were beginning to sag from his movements.   
He didn’t look up at my entrance, so I hovered by the door. His expression was blank and incredibly far away as if he were watching something only he could see. Not wanting to startle him, I approached with caution, easing my way into his line of vision.   
“Pocahontas,” he said, which was more of a relief than I’d expected it to be. The fever appeared to be gone, the opium worn off, and his sense of awareness back to where it should be. He gestured for me to come closer. His skin looked translucent and thin stretched over sunken cheeks and angled bones. Dark, half moons seemed to weigh down his eyes, and despite all of the sleep that he’d had, he didn’t appear to have gotten any rest. One hand was resting on his thigh as I lowered myself next to him.  
“I’m sorry I called you Sarah,” he said. I was surprised he remembered that, but I assured him it was fine.  
“No,” he said, shaking his head with a startling amount of force. “It’s not- I’m not...” There was water welling in his eyes, but he pushed it away with his hand.  
“I know,” I said. I knew exactly what it was to be unwell and exactly what it was to lose someone too. I suppose that’s why I was so vehemently opposed to losing John Rolfe- of his own accord or at the hands of someone like Argall. It was a long time before we said anything more, but it was also enough just to sit there with someone who knew. Eventually, John turned to me and said,  
“Alex told me that you agreed to the marriage.” The conversation was serious, but my eyebrows gave an involuntary raise. I smiled.  
“You two are on a first name basis now?”   
“After what he told Argall, I can call him whatever I want.” I didn’t mean to laugh, but it tumbled out before I could stop it. John smiled too, but only slightly, and stopped the second I said that Alex had just been trying to help.  
“Well he didn't, did he? And now…”   
Don't get me wrong. It wasn't an ideal situation by any means, not for him and not for me either, but it was a whole lot better than whatever Argall had been prepared to do on the beach. I watched as John took a deep breath and pulled himself closer to the edge of the bed so that his feet touched the floor. I hoped he wasn't trying to stand.   
“Argall was going to kill you,” I reminded him, wondering at what point I should call for Alex. If he did go down, I wasn't strong enough to catch him, much less pull him back up by myself. John stopped what he was doing and looked at me then. His cold, dark eyes were simultaneously sharp with conviction and devoid of emotion as he looked me dead in the eye and said,  
“Maybe he should have.”   
I had told Alex not to believe him, that he didn't really mean what he was saying. Now I wasn’t so sure.  
“You don't mean that,” I said to which John chuckled,  
“Oh but I do.” It wasn't the words; it was the laugh, and though I knew it was more of a dark afterthought than an intentional jab, it still hurt to hear. I took a deep breath and then blew it out like I was blowing on a bee sting.   
“I'm sorry,” he said after a while. “I know that's not what you wanted to hear.”  
“Then why would you say that?”  
“Because,” he replied, “if you're still even thinking about marrying me, you deserve to know.” He sighed and started picking at the bed sheets. “I'm not… I'm not well and haven't been for a very long time.”   
Everybody grieves, I thought, but he must have been reading my mind because he shook his head and said, “No, not like this.”   
I watched as he put his head in his hands, wanting so badly to comfort him with my own. I didn’t though. These particular wounds were not mine to soothe, but I would sit in the silence and listen as he grieved. It wasn’t much, but I knew from experience that it was all anyone could do.   
I don’t know how long we sat there before there was a crash at the front door, and Alex stumbled into the door frame. His hair was disheveled, and his cheeks were red like he’d just run the whole length of the settlement. He put his hands on his knees, gasping for breath. I jumped to my feet.  
“What is it?” I asked, but Alex was still gulping for air, unable to speak.   
“Ar- Argal,” he finally choked. John and I exchanged a look. Neither of us said anything.   
“He- he said he’s l-looking forward to the- the wedding n-next month.”  
My stomach dropped. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see John’s face fall too.   
“I’m sorry,” John said as if he couldn’t possibly have heard right. “Next month?”   
Alex’s eyes were fixed to the floor, his entire expression dismayed and incredibly far away. He heaved a breath and nodded in reply. In the silence that followed, the air grew steadily thicker until it was smoldering with anxiety and an insatiable heat. My gaze flashed to the window beside the bed, but when I moved to open it, Alex stood up straight and shook his head.   
“Someone will hear us,” he said, which wouldn't have been a problem if everyone had kept their voices down. Alex must have noticed it before I did because he hopped over the threshold and latched the door behind him. When I looked at John, he was clutching the edge of the mattress and trying to stand.   
I put a hand on his shoulder to stop him, but he brushed it aside, his entire body inflamed to the touch and seething with contempt. A strand of sweat soaked hair fell in his face as he found his footing and pushed himself upward. The bandages strained with every movement, wilting at the edges until the ones most disturbed by his efforts began to slide down and away. The welts underneath were still swollen and angry. Resisting the urge to cover them, I focused on the line of John's jaw instead. He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and heaved himself into a standing position. His legs shook underneath him, but both of us knew better than to help. John grabbed the windowsill for support before yanking it open and turning back to face us.   
“Let them,” he heaved. “No one, not even the council, would disagree that a month is not enough time to get married.”   
“Initially it was two weeks,” Alex replied. “I negotiated two more.”   
“Well aren't you just the hero of this whole thing.”   
“John-” I started, but he dismissed me with an eye roll and a wave. And then because he knew exactly what was going to say, he said:  
“It was not up to him to save me.” And then for good measure he added, “And it is most certainly not on you.”  
“Well it's not just about you anymore, is it?”   
Alex, who having finally had enough, drew himself up to his full height and raised his voice. Both men stared at each other in livid silence. If John wasn't still hurt and Alex had chosen any other profession, this would've been the part where, in a wave of rage and male instinct, they both launched themselves across the room to settle the matter with blows. Sensing this, I inserted myself directly into their lines of vision and turned to Alex.   
“What do you mean?”   
Alex didn't take his eyes off John as he replied.  
“I mean that John’s life is not the only one at stake if this marriage doesn't go through on time.” To me he said, “Even after everything at the post, Argall still suspects we lied.”   
“You did,” said John, but neither of us acknowledged him as the gravity of the situation started to sink in. My insides were suddenly freezing, and the fear that was rising in my own eyes was reflected in Alex's as well.   
“And if his suspicions are confirmed?”   
Alex hung his head and sighed. When at last the words came, he looked at us both and replied:  
“What he has for me and John is pretty obvious, but you…”   
It was hard to imagine anything worse than death, but once my mind started rolling, the possibilities did too. One after another they flashed before my unseeing eyes: images of rape and slavery, bodily mutilation, public humiliation. The possibilities really were endless. And then there were John and Alex whose executions I would no doubt have to watch as well. So consumed was I by the horror of my imagination that I didn't even hear what Alex said. All I heard was John and his insistence that it wouldn't happen.   
“Plan the wedding,” he said. To me, he dropped his voice and reached out his hand. “Pocahontas, come here.” The lines along his forehead had softened, replaced instead by a look so pleading and a tone so gentle that I went without question. With one arm still on the windowsill, he wrapped the other around my shoulders and whispered with all the conviction he could muster,  
“Nothing is going to happen to you. I promise.”   
It was as if all the energy had been sapped from me then, and without even thinking, I pressed my forehead to his chest. His skin was warm and comforting against my own, and even though he was barely standing up himself, there was a solidness about him that radiated strength and sought to pull me under its protective covering. It occurred to me to resist, to extract myself from the vortex of our instincts- his to protect and mine to let him- even and especially at a time like this. I didn’t though, and neither did he.   
“And the baptism?” Alex asked. John tightened his grip on my shoulder but didn’t say anything. I’d only heard the word once before, and it was on the beach with Argall. At the time, it sounded like a requirement for getting married. What it actually entailed, I had no idea. I was altogether unfamiliar with the customs of English weddings, but judging by John’s reaction, I sensed that whatever it required was a nuisance at best and pain staking at worst. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than I expected.  
“Can we just… have a minute?” he asked.   
“You and Pocahontas?”  
“Me and you.” To me he said, “Will you excuse us for a bit?” Knowing that they had a lot to talk about and that John had a lot to say, I nodded and slipped out from under his arm toward the door. Alex nodded as I passed but kept his eyes on John, refusing to meet my gaze. They waited until the door shut before they started yelling.


End file.
